No More Heroes
by Alioseven
Summary: Rewritten and re-posted: Sherlock is injured whilst on a case and his life is changed forever.
1. Chapter 1

"He's awake."

Sargent Sally Donovan's voice was the first thing Sherlock heard when his eyes fluttered open to wet, November night. He was looking up at the stars - in the gutter, looking up at the solar system in motion almost - and all he could feel was icy rain hitting his face and the rusted taste of blood filled his mouth. He couldn't move; his body was frozen still but picked up the slightest of vibrations around him and multiplied them by infinity, making everything painful. His chin bobbed as he took in a sharp breath, his tongue lapped at a cut on his full bottom lip. His lungs ached as they fought to rise against stubborn ribs.

"Is he breathing?" Sherlock's mind registered another voice in the wet, night air and managed to piece together his senses enough to equate it to Charlie Hawkes, a new member of Lestrade's team whom he'd only met that evening, and his tone was tinged with worry.

"Just about," Sally replied and then a brief silence was permeated by the crackling of the radio in Sally's hand as she brought it to her mouth, "Freak's alive," she mumbled, "But it's serious."

"Is he breathing?" a voice broke through the static of the radio and Sherlock knew it instantly as DI Lestrade.

"Yeah," Sally replied on an exhale, "Shallow, though. His pulse is weak and there's a definite head injury. Lestrade, he's been shot in the back."

"Stay with him," Lestrade's voice cracked through the radio again. "I mean it, you and Hawkes, don't leave his side; the ambulance is on its way."

"Yes, Sir," Sally replied confidently, slipping the radio back into the loop on her belt.

Sherlock couldn't hear anything of significance after that; no voices, no traffic, no reassurance gave him any indication as to what had happened or why. Falling onto his face in icy droplets, the rain trickled down into his ears and consumed his senses. His head ached, his chest felt tight and a sharp pain in his shoulder stabbed persistently. But no words escaped his mouth to express his discomfort. The pain in his back, though, from neck to hips was agony; an all-encompassing glow of red-hot pain that refused to let up digging unrelentingly at almost his entire skeleton. But his legs were fine; they didn't hurt one bit. They didn't even tingle. They didn't even feel wet as the sky continued to teem down on him.

There were no flashing blue lights, no signs of help. There was Sally and Charlie and him. Not even John. He needed to tell him about the flat, or about the stars; he needed John to know about the stars. Where was John?

* * *

Hospitals were all the same to John, apart from those built up in Afghanistan by the Army, those were something all of their own merit. But hospitals, NHS ones, were unchanging in his eyes. They smelled strongly of disinfectant yet the rates of MRSA were still rather high; they teemed with people yet there was never enough staff; they were fast-paced with resources at their fingertips and yet the families and friend of patients were forced to wait, often without news, on plastic chairs with inadequate coffee and minds racing with the incurable disease of thinking the worst.

Silence was usually golden to him, but sitting in silence beside Lestrade – now off duty but still here, still waiting – was excruciating. The Detective Inspector tapped his feet, uncomfortable and nervous in an echo of John's feelings, and the sound grated on John's last nerve. "Greg!" he finally snapped, holding out his hand as if he were stopping an invisible bouncing ball. "Please,"

Greg sighed, his feet deadening immediately, "Sorry," his eyebrows rose a little in apology, "Nervous."

"I know," John nodded and leaned back a bit in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. The artificial lighting overhead was bothering his already pulsing temples; worry and florescent lighting didn't mix. "I know," he repeated, "So I am. God, I would have thought there'd at least be an update by now, if nothing else." he arched forwards again, elbows on his thighs and head in his hands, with such a curve to his spine that Greg deemed it too painful a position to mirror.

"Did you get in touch with his brother?" Greg asked as he sat forwards a bit, giving him room to squirm out of his coat. Two hours was more than enough and it needed to come off. He placed the coat on his chair as he rose to his feet and began to pace. It was better than sitting, it had to be. His arms folded neatly across his chest, he paced ten steps to the right, then back to John, then ten to the left and back again.

"Tried," John scrubbed his hands over his face, exhausted and looking it, and tapped his fingers on his cheeks as he cupped his chin. "I left a message in the end, asked him to call me back as soon as possible. I didn't elaborate too much but made sure he knew it was about Sherlock, and that it was important, and asked him to get back to me quickly." He looked up at Greg through worried eyes.

Halting on the spot, Greg pulled his hand through his silver hair, "Did Hawkes or Donovan mention what they saw? They were with him, they must have seen something?"

"I asked," John's dark eyes widened further, "Both of them said nothing was out of the ordinary that they could see until the shots were fired and even then, they saw nothing. All I can piece together is that after you and I left the apartment on Northumberland Street, the three of them trailed a little way behind. Sally said Sherlock turned back even after they did, he wasn't convinced about something but she didn't catch what. She said Charlie was coming closer to us and she was about to follow when the shots were fired." John sighed, "Greg, there were three bullets, _three._ Two hit his spine and one went into his thigh. I didn't see everything, I couldn't gage the full extent of the damage but if the bullets have hit his spinal cord – if that's the extent of the damage – we had better start praying for a miracle because, chances are…" he held his breath, his eyes lost and misting.

"Chances are," Greg picked up, "Sherlock's looking at paraplegia as a bonus over dying." He sounded a little frightened, hating to admit the words but having been around the block enough to know what spinal cord injuries meant.

John nodded sadly and then amended, "Monoplegia, if he's lucky, but…" he shook his head, resigned. "The fact of the matter is he's not getting out of this unscathed, no chance; he's more than likely not walking out of this hospital."

"I'll question Donovan and Hawkes further, I'll get everything they know or even bloody think they know," Greg scrubbed his stubbled face with large, calloused hands, exhausted and confused. "Whoever did this, whoever fired the shot, I'll…"

"Yeah," John nodded, rising to his feet and stopping Greg in his speech. He stood a good deal shorter than the DI as he faced him, "Yeah, Greg, I know you will." He was serious, thankful and sincere in his expression but he knew that nothing would happen, nothing _could_ happen; nobody had seen the gunman, there was absolutely nothing to go on and he wasn't in the dark on that fact. John wasn't naïve enough to allow himself the fairy-tale, rose-tinted belief that this would be a smooth, open and shut case.

Greg returned to his chair, a little more comfortable now that his coat was folded into it, and sat back as far as he could to cross his left leg comfortably over his right. It was John's turn to pace now, unspent energy and fear bubbling up beneath his jumper. They'd consumed as much coffee as anybody could without vibrating and it was doing them no favours. Greg wanted to go out onto the hospital forecourt and smoke what would probably have been the most satisfying cigarette of his life but he couldn't bring himself to abandon John, not when he knew that the surgeons could arrive with new – potentially life-altering news – at any moment. He wasn't far wrong, either. As he rose to his feet, about to excuse himself to the toilets down the clinical corridor to their left, John reached out and grabbed his wrists and, when he looked up, he trailed two men, suited in green scrubs, most certainly approaching them and his knees went weak.

"Doctor Watson?" the younger of the two men asked as Greg and John both sat back into their seats. The surgeons took the seats opposite and waited for recognition from John and Greg.

"Yes," John croaked, then cleared his throat. "Yes, sorry. Doctor Watson, yes." He nodded.

The young surgeon smiled, "I'm Rick Chancellor and this is Alec Chalmers; we led the operating team for Mr Holmes." His face was kind but neither Greg nor John found themselves comforted. "The surgery was successful, from a restoration and repair standpoint. The internal bleeding caused by the two bullets that entered the spinal column was remedied and the bullets removed," he listed and John could tell he was gearing up for something worse. "The muscle damage to the thigh was minimal, surprisingly, and the bullet removed and a drain was inserted to prevent any build up inside." He licked his lips, a tell that was easy to read. "Whilst we don't know the extent of Mr Holmes' permanent status, and won't until he is recovered, we are in a position to say that regaining full mobility is unlikely. The damage to the spinal cord was immense," he explained as gently as possible, "Nerve damage, the spinal cord itself-," He began to waver and John took a deep breath.

"Is he paralysed?" John was blunt, his voice firm and authoritative. Look meek, mostly, as he might, his years in the army and attending a London university for his medical training had given him the confidence he needed to assert in times like this.

"Given the type of injury, something we call a T12-L1 Spinal Cord Injury," Doctor Chalmers began in place of the younger teammate with an older, more mature and soothing sound to his voice and John wondered why it was you always felt at ease with a Doctor who resembled your Granddad over one who resembled your brother. "We would anticipate complete paralysis from the lower back, yes."

Greg's inhale was sharp and loud and ultimately painful but John was silent. He had been expecting this and yet he'd allowed himself to hope, to pray, that somehow it wouldn't be this way. Chances, about ninety-eight percent, John reckoned, were that Sherlock would never get over this.

Given a moment for the news to sink in, though it was impossible to absorb, Greg and John were led to the ICU, under strict instructions to be respectful. The room was dark, lit only from the lights that illuminated the hallway outside of it, and was alive with static. Beeps, gushes, whooshes, pulsing and popping battled for lead vocals whilst a low, electric buzz sang a sad backup. The bed was raised high and laid completely flat and Sherlock's long, slender body was splayed across it, nude to the waist before disappearing beneath a blue, cotton blanket and white, hospital-issue sheet. His pale skin looked even paler against the stark, clinical room; his light dusting of freckle and moles on his chest all but invisible under the room's bluish glow.

Greg's eyes were drawn to Sherlock's face, smattered with small cuts and forming bruises; his mouth was obscured by an oxygen mask that fogged and cleared unsteadily and his head was held in straps to the bed to prevent him moving. He looked like a baby, propped between pillows and supports to stop him falling out of bed and, in effect, that's what was happening; the bars were pulled up on the sides of the bed and pillows were placed at Sherlock's sides, locking the lifeless creature into an oversized cot.

Sherlock's chest was covered with pads that led off to the heart monitor at the side of the bed and an antibiotic and saline drip ran into the back of his hand. There were tubes that disappeared beneath the blankets, too, but Greg didn't even want to know what their jobs were, wincing as visions filled his mind and threatened to make him vomit.

John stepped closer to the bed, as close as he could get without lying down on top of Sherlock, and took the hand free of electric of medicinal attachments and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's as tightly as he could before the fear of breaking him made him loosen his hold a little. Sherlock's eyes fluttered slightly and he returned the grasp with a twitch of his fingers. His breathing was sharp and a little ragged but deep and lung-filling. Between the drugs, the pain and the earlier anaesthetic, he couldn't bring himself to waken up and John didn't envy him the exhausted, fuzziness in his head.

"Hey," John's voice was calm and low, whispered softly as Greg stood at the foot of the bed trying not to frighten himself at the Frankenstein's creation his mate of the past six-years had become. "It's OK now, it's alright. I'm not going anywhere." John's words remained softly-spoken and so, so calm that, for a moment, Greg felt as though he were intruding on something intimate. The wold didn't get to see this, the officers at the Yard weren't privy to this level of personal affection and Greg doubted Mycroft or Mrs Hudson were, either; the tender, loving, gentle closeness between the Army Doctor and his Consulting Detective, a moment usually just for them, on blatant display.

Sherlock gave a whimper – soft, small and echoic behind the mask – and a bubbled croak emanated from deep in his throat. His head moved in the tiniest motion as if to struggle against the confining straps and John placated him quickly, reaching up with his free hand to touch Sherlock's cheek softly and as closely as the straps across his forehead and chin would allow, keeping the other hand locked tightly in Sherlock's hand. "It's alright, shh," he said, his face pained. This was hurting, deeply.

He looked back, over his shoulder, and Greg could see the tears in his eyes. "What do you need me to do?" He asked, his voice equally as small as John's had been to Sherlock.

John inhaled deeply, trying to swallow down his emotions and be braver than he felt. "Can you go to Baker Street?" he asked and Greg's nod was instantaneous. "Can you pack a bag with our stuff in? If you ask Mrs Hudson she'll help, I'm sure. I need changes of clothes for a couple of days, I can go back after that and get sorted out myself. Erm, my phone charger, it's beside the TV on the locker. Erm…" he swallowed again, his throat constricting as Sherlock's fingers twitched against his hand. "Sherlock's pyjamas, maybe; t-shirts are in the second draw in the first bedroom, the bottoms are in the draw below and maybe some toiletries? Just raid the bathroom cabinet, you know?"

Greg gave another swift nod, "Of course," he licked his lips and silently decided there and then that he'd just grab anything in sight in the flat that he thought might be of some use. He watched John a moment, waiting for more instructions, and noticed his expression change. "John?" he said, his voice careful as a frown furrowed his brow. "What is it?" His head tilted to the side.

"We're going to have to leave Baker Street," John looked him square in the eyes.

"No," Greg dismissed with a tick of his tongue against his teeth, "Not necessarily – changes can be made to houses these days, John. I don't consider myself an expert but I've seen the shows."

"Not to places like that," John shook his head. "And then there's the stairs. Have you ever carried a wheelchair, Greg? Impossible to get up and down stairs that narrow and then with Sherlock in it…" he closed his eyes and wetted his lips with a quick lap of his tongue. In a moment, his moment of despair evaporated. "I can't think of anything we need, my keys are in my coat pocket. I left it on the chair by the door." He nodded over to the lone plastic chair along the wall beside the entrance with his coat thrown over it.

Greg stepped forward and cupped his hand onto John's tense shoulder, "I'll just be a phone call away. Anything you need, just get in touch. I'll try to be quick."

"Thanks, Greg," John blinked slowly.

Nervousness trembling right to his fingertips, Greg reached down and touched Sherlock's arm with his left hand, "We're going to do everything we can, Sherlock." John gave him a closed-lipped smile as he quickly pulled his hand back and, without another word, left them alone.

Sherlock continued to make occasional sounds, mostly incoherent bubbles of far-off pain, and it stabbed John's heart. He felt vulnerable, having to be stronger than he had since Afghanistan, having to be the one to placate the pain away and it was worse because he knew that he couldn't. Sherlock didn't know yet, wouldn't for some time, that the chances of him walking again were slim to none. John didn't know if, when the time came, he could be the one to tell him, to irreparably change Sherlock's life. At the same time, he didn't think he could stand for anyone else to shatter Sherlock's world with the revelation, either.

Alone, scared, vulnerable and angry, John let the first of his tears fall with Sherlock's hand tightly gripped in both of his own. He wasn't Doctor Watson, Captain Watson or even Sherlock's blogger anymore; he was just John Watson now, standing to lose a part of his life and he needed to cry about that and so he did. He let his breath hitch and shake, his chin tremble and his teeth catch his lower lip as it shook uncontrollably whilst tears cascaded down his stubbled cheeks. It took ten minutes for the pain to stop, or to at least become controllable again. The grief wasn't gone, not by a long chalk, but the urgency of his sadness had. He could be stronger now, _would_ be stronger now. He had to be, there was no other choice.

* * *

**I know you're all after me with flames and stones and I deserve it. I'm sorry! **

**I decided to reread this story when I got a bout of writers block and noticed some major issues in character placement and some big plot-holes that left me a bit randomly placed with where I wanted the story to go. Getting angry at myself for that I deleted the story and decided to go from scratch, rewriting and adjusting (swapping some people, adding and taking away information) and I am getting happier now with every rewritten chapter. **

**Although fundamentally the same story, there have been changes made and parts have been reworded so there are differences but I completely understand if you don't want to go over old ground and just want to wait for the new chapters. I'll work as quickly as possible but I don't want to rush and make mistakes. Hopefully, you guys understand that. **

**Thank you for coming back, sticking around, waiting, caring enough to even wonder where the story went. You're amazing and I thank you. **

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

It was late, dark and still lashing down an ice-cold rain when Greg stopped the car outside of 221 in Baker Street. There were lights on in the hallway, shining through the glass at the top of the door and he didn't doubt that Mrs Hudson was pacing the floors out of worry. She'd known Sherlock for some year, Greg knew, and despite him being an adult their entire relationship she treated him as though he were a young boy. Despite this, Greg was quiet as he let himself in through the main door of 221 and wasn't surprised a bit when the door at the far end of the hall opened sharply, revealing the middle-aged woman in her dressing gown with an ashen face and her exhausted, tear-reddened eyes. John had called her, Greg recalled, but he had been brief with his words and so Greg was expecting questions.

"Detective Inspector," She straightened up, pulling her dressing gown around her tighter. "I thought you may have been John." She dithered.

Greg's lips pulled into a smile but his eyes didn't shift, "John's still at the hospital with Sherlock. He's out of surgery – he asked me to come and pick some things up, I didn't mean to disturb." He said calmly, a little embarrassed to be where he was and not feel professional about it.

"How is he? Do you know what's going to happen, yet?" She asked and her hand flew to her chin in dismay so quickly it made Greg jump internally.

"We're not going to know anything, not until he's woken up and been properly assessed." Greg looked down at his hands, turning the key between his large fingers.

"But it's not good, is it Detective Inspector?" She asked, swallowing audibly.

Greg looked up at her again and gave a fond, painful smile with a small shake of his head, "No. No, it's not good at all."

For a moment they regarded one another in silence, neither prepared to cry but both able for it. But it was she who took control of the situation. Clearing her throat, Mrs Hudson straightened her back and in true English fashion, stiffened her upper lip. "You're here to pick up some things for the boys?"

"Yes, if that's OK with you?" Greg nodded, "I'll do my best to be quick; John's asked for a few things for him and Sherlock, I'll just grab those and go again, try not to disturb anything."

"It's quite alright," She dismissed with a shake of her head, "Carry on and if you need my help just shout. John's clothes are on the left, Sherlock's on the right – it's the same for their toiletries in the bathroom," She said with a thoughtful frown, "Doctor Watson's left handed, you see, so I suppose it makes it easier to grab at things," she smiled softly and Greg found himself doing the same. "Knock before you leave? I'd like to know you're going back and I can send some food with you, I don't want John neglecting to eat."

"Of course," Greg nodded professionally, drawn in by her maternal pattering. "Thank you." He waved the keys in his fingers before taking the seventeen steps up to 221b.

He felt like an intruder as he stepped into the flat through the kitchen. He glanced around, the surfaces littered with beakers and cups all of which he knew were Sherlock's doing. The flat was somewhat clearer than the days before John had moved in, but the clutter and scientific overload remained. He reached up and flicked the light switch on the wall beside the fridge, illuminating right through the archway into the main living space with a flood of bright, yellow light. He glanced around uneasily, spotting John's charger exactly where he'd said it would be. He scooped it up, pushing it into his coat pocket to avoid putting it down and losing it somewhere and scoped around a little, trying to work out if there was anything that would be of use to them littered around the lounge but his eyes didn't settle on anything of importance.

Nervously, he made his way into the lower bedroom, searching out a bag from the wardrobe and laid it out on the unmade bed; a tangle of sheets and pillows to remind Greg that twenty four hours ago it was occupied, fully functioning as their home and now it felt empty, devoid of life and so hollow it was almost spooky. It was odd to search through the draws of his friends, filling a hold-all with underwear. It felt far too personal but it gave him something to do that made him feel like he was actually helping Sherlock and John out in a situation where he was pretty much useless. He added a couple of books into the bag with John and Sherlock's clothes and threw in the charger from his pocket before he paced from the bedroom into the bathroom, filling a procured toiletry bag with whatever he put his hands to. Once the bag was packed and zipped tightly, he stood in the middle of the bedroom , hands on his hips pushing back his coat, and tried to think of something to do that didn't involve breaking down.

Anger coursed through him at bubbling speed. It made no sense that they'd gone from inspecting an apartment suspected of being used as a terrorist hide out to surrounding one of their own with a bullet in his back. The apartment had been empty, that he was certain of; there had certainly been nobody in the building whilst they were in there. How did it go from an empty flat to one housing a gunman? He couldn't work any of it out and it only drove his anger further up. He wanted to grab the nearest firearm and go to Northumberland Street and shoot the sorry son of a bitch who'd done this – an eye for an eye in the most perfectly cruel of ways. And it would be just, he told himself. Revenge it might be, but it would be just.

He picked up the bag in his right hand and quickly made his way out of the flat, plunging it back into darkness before he descended the stairs. He left the bag on the bottom step and turned down the corridor, knocking gently on Mrs Hudson's door. "Mrs Hudson?"

A chain and then a deadlock slipped across before the door was pulled open and the woman revealed herself again. She'd been crying and Greg could see it plainly; her eyes were red and her face paler than before. He gave her a soft, sad smile as she handed him a lunchbox. "There are," She sniffed, "Sandwiches for you and John in here. And there's some fruit and biscuits." She smiled and then produced a thermos flask, "And tea," she gave a gentle nod.

"Thank you – John will really appreciate this._ I _appreciate this." He gave a tired smile.

A sad look crowded her features and her eyes flicked across Lestrade's face, "You will look after them both, won't you?" she asked, her voice catching slightly.

"I wouldn't be doing my job as DI or their friend if I didn't, Mrs Hudson. They're in safe hands, both of them, I promise you." His voice was soothing in an attempt to placate her frayed nerves and he touched against her arm gently with a freed hand. "Get yourself off to bed, you look exhausted. I will be in touch with you after lunchtime and I'll pass on any news of Sherlock I have then, alright?"

"Thank you," Her eyebrows knitted together sympathetically in the centre of her forehead as she attempted a smile, "Thank you," She repeated, clinging to the door for a moment before she pushed it closed, slowly. Greg waited until he heard the locks slip back across again before he turned away.

He placed the food and the flask into the back and zipped it back up again, throwing it over his shoulder for the short walk to the car. Laying the bag on the front passenger's seat as he got into the driver's side of the car, he pulled door closed quickly against the unrelenting rain and rested back against the seat with a heavy sigh through his cold nose. Everything was fucked.

* * *

There was a sound that flooded John's ears, gradually getting louder, that resonated over the electric pulsing of the room. One he'd heard before, numerous times, but not one he could put his finger on with his mind so emotionally fatigued and distracted. It continued as though on a loop – tap scuff, tap scuff, tap scuff – and then stopped, ebbing into silence. Then, as the tapping resumed once more, John's mind finally came to life with something far off flicking on to remind. From his position, leaning against the side of Sherlock's bed, bending over to keep closeness, he straightened and craned his neck to look up to the door way and wasn't a bit surprised with who his eyes landed on when he scanned the entrance.

"Mycroft,"

Mycroft was stoical but irrefutable, nodding curtly at the slightly younger man, "Doctor Watson."

"He's…" John began

Mycroft's gloved left hand shot up, "I've seen the notes," he cut in, stepping further into the room. He left the coat on his arm and his umbrella on the chair housing John's and dragged his gloves off, dropping them down with the rest of his belongings before he pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and stepped closer to the bed, walking around to the opposite side in order to face John and get a little bit closer to his brother. "Of course, I can organise whatever is needed should the worst case scenario arise." He said, voice booming against the static. "New accommodation, physical therapists, equipment – whatever that might be – whatever it is that is needed," he stopped and, for the first time since he'd met him, John saw Mycroft struggle with his stony-faced composure.

"He's in a lot of pain." John decided that talking into the silence was the best option. "Wakes occasionally but he's not lucid and though he is tanked up on medication it only works so well and they're only able to give him so much. They're aware of his history of drug use – they're trying to be diplomatic."

Mycroft's mouth twitched at the mention and his eyes locked up on John's coldly, "You've spoken with the surgeons who operated on him?" he asked. There was malice in his tone but it was nothing that John hadn't come to expect since meeting the man for the first time.

John inhaled deeply, hoping to hide his own feelings and nodded his head, "They're confident there'll be no health complications – the shot to his thigh was clean and there has been no major organ damage. Kidneys, liver, stomach…everything avoided being even scraped." He shook his head wistfully at how lucky, really, Sherlock had been. "But they're certain he'll be paralysed. The nature of his injury…" he shrugged. "It's inevitable, really. We're not waiting for him to recover, we're simply waiting for him to be strong enough to wake up and be told the truth." He scratched his face, his voice bitter. He looked up to catch Mycroft's eye a moment but found him staring at his brother, eyes painfully focused on Sherlock's hidden mouth. "Mycroft, there were three bullets. Three. No accident, no misfire. This was premeditated or at least offered by somebody who knew what was going on and worked off the spur of the moment." John's voice dripped with anger and Mycroft's eyes rose to look at him. "Two in his spine and one in his leg; there is absolutely no way he is ever going to be who he was before tonight, not ever, Mycroft."

Mycroft's brow twitched in the tiniest movement.

John sighed, anger brewing greater, and shook his head, "I just hope you're happy."

"Happy?" Mycroft's frown was deep, his brows sharpening along with his eyes, "What is there in this situation for me to find a semblance of happiness in, Doctor Watson?"

"He was out on your case, the one you came to him with filled with insistence and reverse psychology." John's hands flew out, "I told him no, I said so many times that this wasn't something to be involved in – international security, terrorism, drugs – I told him no but he had to prove to you that he could do this, had to make you see that he was better than you!"

"He is better than me," Mycroft's chest puffed out, "Always has been; mind, body and spirit. There are things I have an acute ability for that he lacks but, in general, Sherlock's ability to always be as brilliant as he was without social conformity made him more capable than I am."

"Not anymore," John swallowed to wet his constricting throat and the sharp intake of breath from Mycroft was all John could hear, even over the machines. "In trying, as he always has done, to prove to you he hasn't completely wasted his life and abilities, in trying to gain some respect, he has all but ruined his life." John's face contorted in anger, trying to make Mycroft see.

"There are a plethora of people in the world who are successful and yet confined to a wheelchair, Doctor Watson." Mycroft's eyes fixed John with a condescending stare, "Plenty, as you well know being an Army doctor." The condescension in his voice with that in his expression was enough to sicken John's stomach.

"Name one whose job is chasing around London after criminals?" John's entire body stiffened with hatred for the man before him. He had never really hated anyone before – not true, deep-rooted hatred like this, so all-encompassing and serious. "If, _if_ there is any chance of him walking again – which you can pretty much rule out – but if there is, he'll be going from scratch, he'll be a child again, Mycroft, learning to walk and read his body like a toddler at the age of thirty-five." He gave a mirthless laugh, "And even if he manages that, if by some miracle something slips back into place to restore mobility, he will _never_ be the same person as he was five hours ago and that is down, solely, to you. I hope you can live with that because I can tell you categorically, I couldn't."

John stared at Mycroft for a second before extracting himself from Sherlock's hand with guilty reluctance. He stalked from the room with a shake of his head, his shoulders squared. His limp was back, slight but evident, and it twinged Mycroft's heart – such as he had one for people besides Sherlock – and he watched John disappear down the hallway with an expression that convincingly hid any emotion at all. His eyes cast to Sherlock, rolling over his cut lips and pale skin punctuated by forming bruises. Taking a deep breath, he leaned carefully over the rail and placed a gentle kiss beside Sherlock's closed, left eyelid. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

* * *

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

John stared at himself in the mirror adhered to the wall of the men's toilets and took a heavy, dizzying breath as he fought the urge to vomit. His cheeks were red, eyes wide and unfocussed, and his hands gripped the sink weakly by way of support whilst his legs felt like jelly about the knees. His resolve faltered and he arched forwards, vomiting vending-machine coffee into the sink with four, painful retches. This was disgusting, all of it disgusting and wrong, as acrid as the taste in his mouth. He turned on the cold tap, cleaning the sink with the fast-flowing water, and scooped handfuls into his mouth to swill it out. Sherlock, the man of strength and determination, who fought for the sheer brilliance of himself, had been crippled for life, broken irreparably, by three, small darts. It sounded like a cruel joke that nobody was laughing at.

_Sherlock Holmes and a gunman walked into a bar…_

Gripping the sides of the sink again, this time feeling steadier, John examined himself again. The anger at Mycroft was immense but it was nothing compared to the sadness he felt for Sherlock – the grief – at all he stood to lose. His livelihood, the very thing that kept him sane, was more than likely something he'd never do again. How could he be as free to move about the city in a chair as he was on long, graceful legs? And all for what? They hadn't even caught the guy, they were no closer to solving the original case and now they were lumbered with another that stood no chance of being solved. It was another of those jokes, John assumed, another of them oh-so-funny jokes that nobody found a shred of mirth in.

_Sherlock Holmes wasn't able to walk into a bar…_

It took a few moments for the colour to return to his face but he watched it happen slowly in the mirror. There was mostly anger, still, but he did feel a twinge of guilt as his feelings realigned at having talked to Mycroft the way he did. He was in no doubt that Mycroft, too, was suffering. Sherlock was his brother, despite anything that may pass between them and john knew from his experiences with Harry that, no matter what, blood was thicker than water in the times when it counted the most.

Straightening himself up and fixing his sweater, John left the bathroom with steadier breathing and a determination to keep the faith. He knew he couldn't hide in the bathroom forever and, as much as he wanted to get back to be there for Sherlock, he didn't rush his steps. Scuffing his feet, hands in the pockets of his cords, he glanced up at the many turnings off of the long corridor as he made his way back to Sherlock's small room right at the end. But the toilets weren't too far away and it only took him a few moments to reach the small archway into Sherlock's room. Mycroft was gone but his coat and umbrella were still in the position they were before, right by the door, so John knew he wasn't too far away. He wasn't sure whether he felt relieved at his absence or angered but he settled on it being good for Sherlock that he was still around; he needed all the love and support he could get right now, whomever was offering it.

He stepped quietly up to the bed and drew his hands from his pockets so he could take Sherlock's in his own. His long fingers curled around John's slightly and John took it as a sign that the Detective had some awareness over what was happening in the room even if he wasn't fully lucid. "You hear me?" he asked carefully and, once again, Sherlock's fingers twitched tighter around his. "I know this is probably really confusing but you're OK. You're badly hurt, it's not good, and you're on a cocktail of drugs at the moment but you're doing fine. Lestrade's back at Baker Street going through your pants." He smiled with damp eyes. Sherlock gave a groan behind the mask and John looked up to his face, his eyebrows knitted in the centre sympathetically. "Just relax, you're alright." He kept his voice calm.

Terrible, but for a moment he felt like he was back in Afghanistan and he blinked his eyes and shook his head to the sounds of bombs cracking ghost-like in his ears, the echoic screams and angry shouts and the phantom smells that flooded his nostrils with painful nostalgia. They got quieter slowly, fading back into his mind as he watched Sherlock's face for any signs of movement, his eyes quickly picking up the tear that rolled from Sherlock's closed, left eye and moved slowly down his cheek. "Hey," he reached out with his free hand and caught the salty droplet on his finger, "It's alright, I'm right here. It's alright."

Sherlock gave another groan from somewhere deep in his throat and his hand pulled away lethargically from John's grip. He tried to raise his arm a few times, the movement sluggish and feeble before giving another groan, almost weeping pitifully, and tried to turn his head to face John.

"OK, shh…" John shuffled further along to be closer to Sherlock's head and glanced over his shoulder quickly before pulling the oxygen mask down from his face. Sherlock took a deep breath, coughing a little through another moan, his nose scrunched up uncomfortably. "Try to stay still," John whispered soothingly, touching the curls that were reachable through the straps across Sherlock's forehead. "Sherlock, listen to me. It's OK, but you need to try to stay still. It's alright," He smoothed his thumb back and forth across Sherlock's forehead. "There you go," he spoke slowly as Sherlock breathed snuffily through his nose. "Are you in any pain?" he asked gently.

Sherlock's face scrunched again and he drew down his chin, his tongue smacking against his dry mouth and John understood.

"Thirsty?" he said gently, a hand on Sherlock's bare bicep. "Sherlock, do you want me to get you some water?" he stepped away from the bed for a moment and took the standard jug and beaker in the corner as being safe to use. He poured out a small amount of the water into the beaker and brought it back to the bed. There was barely a centimetre depth of water in the cup and John was able to easily tip it back into Sherlock's mouth without spilling it. Sherlock's lips closed gratefully around the cup as the water trickled in and wet his tongue. Repeating the action another couple of times, John watched the discomfort fade a little from Sherlock's face.

But the small physical action seemed to fatigue Sherlock, draining him of whatever amount of energy he'd drawn in before and he drifted into such a motionless, drug-aided sleep that John found himself occasionally checking the machines and watching Sherlock's chest for breathing motion, just to be certain. He leaned heavily on the bed, his hand wrapped around Sherlock's, and watched the rhythmic misting and clearing of the oxygen mask, unsure of how long he stood there, disturbed only by the sound of footsteps behind him.

A nurse stepped into the room on relatively quiet feet, her hair was pulled back she offered John a caring smile as she approached the bed. Silent and efficient, she checked the IV lines, Sherlock's blood pressure, his pulse and oxygen levels, his urine output and temperature, documenting it all in the folder in her arms. As she left, she offered John another sweet smile and he hoped the face he offered in return was something of similar grace, but he couldn't be sure. She disappeared without a word moments later, her shoes giving a small squeak on the polished floor, gradually fading off into the distance only to be replaced by another set of strides and John twisted in his position to see who it was.

With his suit jacket unbuttoned, Mycroft had returned with Greg Lestrade in tow. "I found him outside," Greg said, brows rising. "He looked like he could do with a cigarette, otherwise I'd have been in sooner." He explained by way of apology. Both were a bit weather-beaten, hair damp from the rain and mussed from a blustering wind, their cheeks and noses shining a little more red then was usual to their appearance.

"That's OK," John shrugged, dismissing any need for explanation.

Holding up the bag in his hands, Greg waved it a little in John's line of vision. "Yours and Sherlock's things are in there and Mrs Hudson sent food and a flask of tea." He set the bag onto the chair-cum-closet beside the door and rocked nervously on his feet, his hands pushing into his coat pockets, and transferred his gaze between John and Mycroft as Mycroft took the position he'd occupied before he and John had spoken. He couldn't bring himself to look at Sherlock, being in the room was enough for now. "Need me to stay?" he asked John with what he hoped emanated as a thoughtful tone.

"No; go home, Greg. Get some rest," John gave a sideways smile, "Thank you, for everything you've done tonight."

"Haven't really done anything," Greg shrugged one shoulder, navel gazing.

John released Sherlock's hand and turned to face the DI completely, "No, you have." He insisted, "You stayed through the surgery, you've gone above and beyond your professionalism. I'm really grateful, Greg, and I'm sure in his own way Sherlock would be too."

Greg laughed through his nose, "I'm pretty certain he'd tell me to sod off." His brows rose and he pushed his right hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Just call, OK? If there is anything you need, however small, whatever time, just pick up the phone."

"I know, thanks," John held out his hand to the DI. Greg's grip was firm as he took John's hand, shaking it meaningfully.

Nodding politely in Mycroft's direction, Greg excused himself into the night, not looking back and John knew that it was killing him to see Sherlock this way. He supposed it was memories of knowing Sherlock before he did, of his drug use and subsequent hospital stays that came with being an addict. Turning back to the bed, John pushed his hands into his pockets and pushed the toe of his left shoe into the back of his right, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

The three seemed to breathe at the same time which made the moments between each inhale seem silent, but for the static, and it unnerved John. He felt uneasy, unwelcomed almost, and guilt began to outweigh his anger. "I'm sorry for what I said," he finally spoke up and dragged his eyes from the floor to give Mycroft the respect of looking him in the eye. "I had no right to lay the blame on you, none at all."

"You have every right to voice your opinions, Doctor Watson, and I appreciate that this is as stressful a time for you as it is for me. But you should know that above everything, despite what the common man likes to assume they know, Sherlock is first and foremost my brother and that is the most important thing. I stood by him through addiction and many mistakes that have passed under the bridge and I shall stand by him through this, wherever that leads. And there is nothing," he licked his lips, his lids closing in a slow blink, "Absolutely nothing in this that brings me any happiness." His brow was firm but John could see his chin tremble. Emotions existed in the Ice Man after all.

"He needs everybody's support right now and probably for the rest of his life," John said, leaning a little against the bed, a smidge of the tension clearing.

"You're the medical man," Mycroft's tone softened, "Don't hold back in answering me when I ask, in the worst case scenario, what lies ahead for Sherlock?" John's sigh was louder than he'd intended it to be and a lot more forceful. Mycroft's brow arched further and he repeated his question. "I can handle it, Doctor Watson, whatever the prognosis. Life as a paraplegic for Sherlock; how will it be?"

John took a deep breath and tongued against his cheek, "Initially, it's going to be excruciatingly difficult. He will have to build up his upper body strength as soon as possible; he'll face back pain, not just from the exertion of muscles that weren't used to working so hard but because of the damage, he'll get spasms which will be pretty sore. There'll be gruelling physiotherapy and not just in the hopes of there being some miraculous recovery but for his health. Without regular movement he's at risk of sores, pneumonia, calcium build up in the blood," he explained carefully. "He'll have to get to know his body again, get to grips with personal care – we'll have to work out if he knows when he as to use the bathroom, he'll have to get a handle on catheters and suppositories, washing, mobility…" he rubbed the back of his neck, startling himself as much as he knew it would Mycroft. "But I think the biggest thing is going to be his mental health – it's going to take the worst blow, Mycroft, and we all need to be prepared for that. He's going to go through a range of emotions; he'll be sad and embarrassed and he is going to be so angry and probably for a long time, too."

John watched Mycroft as he nodded; digesting his words whilst his eyes lay on Sherlock's sleeping face. "We can get him counselling?" he asked, eyes flicking up momentarily.

"Naturally," John nodded, "But he'll only go if he wants to and he'll only say so much. He may talk to me a bit, Lestrade at a push, or if he did in the past he may talk to you."

Mycroft gave a breathy smile, "No. Sherlock and I never did share our feelings, being of the opinion that to express them was to express weakness. I don't think it will matter what happens or how bad things become, Sherlock would not come to me for help willingly. It would be you, Doctor Watson, and you alone."

With that, Mycroft took a deep breath and straightened his back. The Mycroft that John had come to know seemed to zap back into the man's body as he fastened his blazer. He crossed the room, retrieving his coat and silently pulled it on. "Oh," John frowned, "You're leaving?"

"Well, there is no use in both of us watching him sleep, is there?" he looked John in the eye a moment, picking up his umbrella. "The moment he is awake and lucid, contact me and I will come straight back." He fixed his coat collar as John gave a silent nod, his brow furrowed. "Thank you,"

"For what?" John's frown deepened.

Mycroft didn't reply, didn't change his expression and didn't meet John's eyes. He turned his back and walked away, turning down the corridor on quick but steady feet, confusing John further still. All the Doctor could do was watch him go; too tired to contend and too worried to argue. He'd been here, John told himself, he'd been here when he should have been and he'd been a different person, what more could he truly expect from him?

* * *

**Thanks for being patient with me, it means a lot. Got a few things slowing me down at the moment but this is still important to me and WILL be put back up. I PROMISE. **

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

He wasn't entirely sure how, but John managed to sleep. He woke, still kind of on his feet, with a searing pain in his lower back where he had hunched over the bed, his head resting on folded arms, leant against the bar, in line with Sherlock's slowly rising and falling chest. Supressing a groan, he straightened his aching back and fiddled at his shirt sleeves to get to his watch. It was almost seven am and he knew that nurses wouldn't be long in coming around. He stretched his arms above his head, trying to work the kink from his crooked spine and yawned silently into the static-filled room. He scrubbed the heels of his hands into his sandpaper eyes and dragged them down over his exhausted face as another yawn stretched down his chin before it snapped shut again. Regaining something close to full composure, he peered over at Sherlock's face, finding a small smile as Sherlock's eyes opened, blinking at him with something between exhaustion and confusion. John wasn't sure which he'd rather be confronted with – a tired Sherlock or a lost one.

"Good morning," he said, wrapping his fingers around the bar.

It was muffled, weak and tiresome, but Sherlock's reply came a moment later, muttered behind the oxygen mask in two breaths; "Mor-ning."

John's mouth flattened into a straight-lipped smile, weak but sincere, his eyes a little misted. "Do you want to take this off?" He asked, placing his left hand carefully onto the mask. Sherlock's nod was miniscule but definite. "OK," John was calm and professional but far from clinical as he pulled the mask down from Sherlock's chin, resting it to the side of his neck and gave a tiny smile, "I can see you better now."

Sherlock blinked slowly, lifting up his right hand sluggishly to John but found he was far too weak to support the limb, leaving it to flop heavily against his hip. John reached down, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "Is…it-," Sherlock licked his dry, cut-up lips. "…b-bad?" his voice was more weak and frail than John imagined could ever have emanated from Sherlock's lips.

Opening his mouth to speak, John found he couldn't conjure up the words; he didn't know if he should, either. But he knew that lying to Sherlock wouldn't help and so opted for honesty without elaboration. "Yes," he nodded and he watched Sherlock give a minute nod of acceptance. He didn't ask anything else, seemingly too exhausted to be able to, anyway. John squeezed his hand in his own and leaned over the bar, kissing the crumpled bridge of Sherlock's nose with gentle lips. "I'm just nipping to the loo – I'll be right back, OK?" He reluctantly extracted his hand from Sherlock's, despite having felt Sherlock's grip tighten slightly, and excused himself from the room.

Out in the corridor, the hospital was coming to life and John knew it was only a matter of time before somebody more senior than a nurse came in to check on Sherlock and he knew, deep in his stomach and high in his heart, that their news would be Earth shattering for all involved. He didn't want to be alone for that. Before entering the toilets, he took his phone from his pocket and quickly called Lestrade, keeping his eyes on the corridors around him, knowing they hated to see people using their phones inside the hospital. The call was picked up immediately; "Lestrade."

"Hey," John's voice was small. Frightened? "Greg, its John,"

"John – everything alright, how's he patient?" the DI's voice was skirting close to joviality but John could hear the trepidation, too; it ran a constant undercurrent in his tone.

"He's a little more with it but there's no…change. There won't be any change," he licked his lips. "Look, I'm calling 'cause, the doctor will be doing rounds soon and they'll be coming in to check him over, do some pretty standard but decisive tests. I'm expecting the worst but – is there…could…?" John sighed heavily, rubbing his temple with the fingers of his right hand.

"I'll be there as soon as I can." Greg spoke up, "I'll get Dimmock to cover and I'll race around."

John's chest exhaled a breath he didn't even realise he was holding. "Thank you."

"It's not a problem, John. Not at all."

There were no goodbyes, each man simply waited a moment in case the other had something more to say and then cut the call. John stuffed his phone back into his pocket and pushed into the toilets, kicking himself for not having thought to dig through the bag back in the room for his toiletries; he could have cleaned himself up a bit or got changed, but relieving a bladder ignored for hours and sipping water from the tap as he quickly washed his face to feel a little fresher, at least, was enough of a luxury for him while his mind was so painfully distracted. He wasted no time in returning to Sherlock, shuffling past the people who looked infinitely more rested then he did. He stepped back into Sherlock's room, the buzz of the machines hitting him immediately after being in the static-free hallway, and startled as he heard the deep voice of Doctor he had yet to be introduced to.

There were nurses surrounding Sherlock's bed and the straps across his body had been removed, the oxygen mask replaced for a small, pronged tube that sat in his nose and his head was propped up, the bed raised ever-so-slightly from its flat position, giving him a little more life. The clip on his finger, keeping a check of the oxygen in his blood, remained while the pads that had decorated his chest had been removed, aiding him to look less small, somehow less frail, but accentuating just how pale his skin was now that it wasn't broken up by the red pads and grey leads. One of the nurses was carefully helping Sherlock's fatigued arms into the sleeves of a gown.

John cleared his throat carefully and eyed the medical staff before holding out his hand to the doctor. "I'm Doctor Watson," he introduced himself with what he hoped was a confident voice and a noble stride, but he doubted it.

"Ah, yes," the man smile behind his thick moustache and shook John's hand with all the vigour of an Army major. "Doctor Webber," he nodded.

"You needn't sugar-coat it," John nodded toward Sherlock, wincing at Sherlock's expression as the nurses replaced the cannula in the back of his hand and saw to the catheter respectively. "I am aware that the outlook isn't good but I need facts," he was firm and authoritative – he could hear it himself – and Doctor Webber responded with a calm nod.

"We completed a range of tests to assess his motor skills…"

"Babinski?" John asked, cutting across the doctor but with an even and unrushed tone. But when Doctor Webber shook his head sadly, John's stomach dropped to his knees more forcefully than he'd expected it might.

"Mr Holmes responds to no stimulus past the lumbar region. Regaining sensation here now would be miraculous." The said, drawing his hands out of his trouser pockets, and took a steady breath. He demonstrated against his own body with both hands, "Here," he placed them on his hip bones and then moved around to the centre of his back, right along the spine, "The point of bullet entry," he explained. "Taking into account the force with which they hit, the damage they then caused and the subsequent movement following the shots, expectations of anything greater than what range of movement he has now is unreasonable."

"So he has movement?" John's brow furrowed.

"No," The doctor shook his head, "Sorry, you misunderstand. I mean to expect him to regain anything – sensation, movement, anything at all – would be naïve." He drew his hands back to his front and washed his palms against his stomach and down, "Numbness occurs completely, right to the toes." He dropped his arms to the sides and then lifted one, touching John's arm. "I am sorry."

"When will you start PT?" John asked, locking his arms protectively across his chest. Where was Greg? He wasn't supposed to be doing this alone – he didn't have the strength for it.

"We'll give him time to recuperate; though his head injury wasn't serious, he will feel a little out of sorts for a little while longer. He needs to heal from the operation, there's still the drain in his thigh though it looks clean and so far no signs of infection or redness which is positive. I know that time is of the essence and that the quicker he gets to improve his strength, physically and mentally, the better, but let's just give him time to adjust, time to rest, and then we can tackle everything head on with a fresh outlook." He patted John's arm again before nodding in Sherlock's direction and walking away. It was only then that John noticed that the nurses had disappeared.

He looked with wide, sad eyes in Sherlock's direction and did his best to smile. He needed to be positive, to keep Sherlock positive and motivated; he had to buck up and be strong, be tough. He couldn't cry, he couldn't pity or wallow; Sherlock had a future and he was alive – he was clinging on to that tightly, both hands grasping at that thread till his knuckles were white with exertion. Mycroft's words the night before were true – thousands of people live perfectly normal, happy, healthy lives after spinal cord injuries, he'd seen it himself. But no amount of rationality and knowledge stopped the hurt, it didn't make the pill any easier to swallow and it certainly didn't change the fact that life with Sherlock as he'd begun to plan could no longer be that way.

He walked closer to Sherlock, his face tugged into a tired smile and raised his eyebrows in an attempt to hide the ache; "You OK?"

"I-I think I should be em…embarrassed." Sherlock's voice croaked from his throat sleepily, his body pumped full of drugs that overpowered his system.

"Embarrassed?" John's brow furrowed, "Why should you be embarrassed?"

"Female nurses," Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes closing in a long, slow blink before opening again, lacking their sharpness, and fixed onto John.

John smirked, "What about them?" he leaned on the bar, still draw up for Sherlock's protection.

"Touching me in-intimately," he breathed out, his head was so fuzzy and his body so weak that everything was tasking.

John did his best to turn his watery eyes into a bright smile, "I'll tell them you're spoken for, shall I?" he tried to hide how his voice rose higher, stretched with an emotional lump tightening his throat. Sherlock tried to laugh but it was impossible against the medically-induced fatigue. His eyelids fluttered softly before closing and remaining that way. John watched him, chest moving more swiftly than it had done earlier but steadily nonetheless as he relaxed into a deep, false sleep.

Confirmation had come and that was that; life had changed irreversibly and with more conviction behind it at the doctor's words, finally settling into John's mind – finally becoming official. Sherlock was paralysed, no feeling past his hips. Sherlock could no longer walk nor read the signs of his body. A sarcastic laugh escaped breathily through John's nose as a thought occurred to him; would there be any physicality to their relationship anymore? It had never been a big part of their live as a couple – Sherlock was Asexual and though he loved John, sex wasn't a necessity – but was what little intimacy of a sexual nature they did have going to be possible at all? Not walking John could get around – it changed nothing; the personal care he could do, too – he was a doctor and squeamishness and blushing didn't factor into it. but sex with Sherlock – such as it was – wouldn't be the same anymore, it would be one-sided and down to John to inform Sherlock if he even had an erection, if indeed there was even the ability to stimulate him to arousal at all. Fifty percent of the things he loved about Sherlock had gone or been damaged and all at the hands of a man John knew would never be caught. Anger wasn't the paramount emotion, but it was second only to grief.

* * *

**I seemed to rewrite this chapter almost fully. I changed the Doctor's explanations, John's responses and the omnipotent overview, too. Framework is the same, but details are different! I like it better - which is the entire point to this rewrite.**

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

It was almost nine when Greg arrived at the hospital and greeted John with hot, fresh coffee and a packet sandwich. "I assumed the hunger would have seen you destroy what Mrs Hudson sent over last night," he said, dropping the bag into the chair at the door that contained the sandwiches and handed John his coffee.

In reality, John had forgotten all about the food tucked away in the bag but said nothing, gratefully accepting the new provisions. "Umm," he sipped the coffee – hot and strong – and felt almost human again as he took another mouthful. "Oh, great – thanks."

"Not a problem," Greg shook his head, resting his hands on his hips, the motion pushing back his coat in the process. "How is he?" he nodded at Sherlock, sound asleep and breathing gently.

"Exhausted; the Doctor and nurses have been around early. As you can see, he's off the heart monitor so that's good, they're keeping him on the oxygen but I think the mask was bugging him. Um-," he sniffed, trying to remember and wondering how to word things eloquently and yet gently. "His doctor, Doctor Webber, was around and did a few tests on his motor skills."

Greg blinked expectantly – hopefully – and nodded for John to continue, "And?" his brow furrowed in preparation for the news. John shook his head and Greg's face fell, eyes closing as he exhaled a heavy sigh with an ache forming in his chest. "What's next?" he found the strength to ask.

"Physio," John said, sipping from the foam coffee cup. "Rest and physio." The words sighed from his lungs with a huff. "I need to sort so much out, foremost somewhere to live." He said bluntly, eyes fixed on Greg. "Once he's up on his f-," He jutted his jaw forwards. "I mean, once he's fit and well, they're going to look to discharge him and if the house isn't suitable then they won't let him go and he'll mad in here for longer than he needs to be. God, he'll go mad being in here anyway once the drugs wear off." He ran a hand over his face.

"What about 221c – floor-level, isn't it?" Greg pondered aloud.

"Basement," John shook his head, "It wouldn't work and it's smaller than what we have now; a step down in every sense. I'm going to have to talk to Mycroft, see if he can help us out because wherever we go it's going to need kitting out and I don't have that sort of money and I have no idea what Sherlock's finances are like. Before me, I think Mycroft kind of subsidised his life. Wherever we end up, there'll need to be major changes to the kitchen, the bathroom and bedroom – we need a bungalow in the middle of London because I need to be able to get to work; if I don't go we don't eat. If I don't go, we can't pay the pissing rent." He let his head drop back, heavy on his shoulders as he stared up at the ceiling, and Greg felt helpless. How did he find the words to comfort somebody beyond feeling better?

"We'll all do everything we can to help both of you," The DI said honestly, "Not just me, the entire team, we'll all pitch in and help you where you need it. Sherlock's done a lot for us in the past. Whatever you need, whether it's help physically or cooking, cleaning, moving house – whatever if it is, we're here to help."

John's left cheek drew up softly, endeared by the gesture. "Thanks, I appreciate the offers honestly, but Greg, can you see him letting that happen?" he gestured his thumb across to Sherlock, "His pride is broken and bruised as it is and it is only going to take more beatings. I think seeing Sally Donovan attempt to dress him would make him want to roll himself off the closest cliff." He laughed mirthlessly and Greg couldn't argue with his point.

"Still," Lestrade nodded. "Anything you need that I can do, I will."

"Thank you." John dragged a hand across the back of his aching neck. "Do you guys have any ideas yet," he asked, "I mean, about the shooter?"

Closing his eyes briefly, Greg shook his head, "Nothing solid yet – we're working on it. Anderson's team are in there today doing a sweep. There's no way we're giving up on this, John. I promise you that we're not going to let this go until we know what happened."

"You've got nothing," John licked his lips, "Where can you go in an investigation when you have absolutely nothing? You need him-," he nodded at Sherlock, "Without him you're going to get nowhere. Not with the original case and not with this one. I want nothing more than to be able to say that I believe you'll get there with this – I mean, I believe you're going to try, I know you will, I trust you lot, I do." He nodded, hoping he sounded more convinced then he felt. "I know you're going to do everything you can, but I can't pin my hopes on a silver lining in this one Greg, there's nowhere and nothing and you can't make something out of nothing."

Greg's eyes fixed hard on John but swam with acceptance of his words. John was right and he knew it but he also knew that he wouldn't be able to stop. It could drive him into the ground, send him to an early grave, it didn't matter – he wouldn't quit, he owed Sherlock too much.

* * *

Mycroft rubbed at his aching temples and slid the thin-framed glasses from his downturned nose. His back was aching but he didn't make a sound as he sat back in the high-backed chair. He'd been at the desk, searching the internet for hours. It had started out as searches for radical treatment of 'miracle cures' for paralysis but, as the night drew in with the acceptance of fate and stories of people who had suffered similar injuries to Sherlock at the same ages jumped off of webpages, the search became about wheelchairs and standing frames, comfort and efficiency for Sherlock. All kinds of things rushed through his mind – a chair of this brand for this type of support, a frame of this brand for this amount of freedom. Google had become a useful tool. He'd searched for equipment that would allow Sherlock to continue to work – streamlined chairs and manoeuvrable standing frames; why did his legs not working mean that he couldn't?

He searched wheelchair manufacturers, physiotherapists, housing in London, housing in Kent and anything else that flashed through his mind that would minimise damage, guilt and – he told himself – disruption for his younger brother. But he knew that the decisions were down to him but to Sherlock and John and that he was simply the purse, but it was the least he could do. He wanted a say, to take control and do everything and anything he could that might fix Sherlock together again but he knew it was not possible; not even a man with a minor Governmental position could do that, no matter who they vetted or bribed or cursed at. Life had changed and he had no control, no say and a heart – such as his was – laden with guilt.

Pushing back the chair from the desk, the wheels squeaking in protest, Mycroft pulled his legs up so that his feet rested on the two of the chair four legs and willed himself not to move his lower limbs at all. He tried to reach forward to his desk but found that his thighs would move instinctively to give him better leverage and realised fully that he couldn't even begin to imagine how difficult things were going to be now, at least for a while, for his brother. On the brink of sinking back into his dark thoughts, he was pulled from the silence by a three beat knock on the door of his office. He looked up as the handle turned and the door opened without a call to enter.

"Sir," Anthea stepped in, "I've just received a call from Doctor John Watson." She said. Her voice silky and calming.

Mycroft's eyes widened but he tried to relax his face, tried to be unreadable. "Yes?"

"He said it would be good to see you at the hospital but he fully understands that you may be required here and would not be at all offended if you couldn't make it. He also said that your brother is much more alert than yesterday but is not yet completely lucid and a Doctor has been around this morning to complete some assessments. He said here that you would understand what he means when he says that suspicions were confirmed." She read off the note scrawled on a slip of paper in her manicured hand.

Mycroft inhaled through his nose and let it escape again in a heavy sigh, "Thank you, Anthea. Could you cancel my meetings for the rest of the day," he said and looked at his watch. It was drawing close to ten am and it felt as though he hadn't rested for a week. "If anybody needs me inform them that I am on business and shall be in touch with them as soon as I am free. Do please screen the calls and take messages of importance; I shall be out of the office for the rest of the day." He rose to his feet and pulled on the blazer thrown over the back of his chair. He looked to Anthea carefully and considered her one of the very few people he would admit to remotely relying upon.

"Your brother, sir," Anthea began calmly, "His condition, is it serious?"

Mycroft nodded briefly, "Quite," his tongue ran over his lower lip. "Life-changing," he elaborated and then added, "Oh, there are two lists on my desk – one is of web addresses and the other with a detailed spec of medical equipment. Would you email those companies, enquire about the listed equipment with each. Price is no matter, but quality, support and comfort are. Do your research," he attempted something close to a smile in her direction before pushing past her, leaving his office with slow, deliberate steps.

He arrived at the hospital punctually. He didn't ask for directions, or permission, as he made his way through the same corridors he'd walked the night before. He felt tired, drained and unsteady, but he wasn't about to let that show. His mind had been too full, to angry, to have gone home to sleep last night, bubbling with angry questions and emotions that threatened to flow over his façade. He knew little about the reality of Sherlock's future, or his own as the brother of a paraplegic; he couldn't even begin to imagine what the diagnosis would truly mean for Sherlock, no matter how many stories he read on the internet or how many doctors and therapists or specialist equipment stockists he accosted.

He pasted on his professional smile for the nurses he passed, his coattails flapping as he walked, and rounded the corner that lead him toward the ICU. He found himself slowing and challenged himself for it; feelings, sentimentality, would not get the better of him, he was stronger than that. He stiffened his jaw, resembling Sherlock somewhat not that he could see that, and walked confidently into Sherlock's room. He wasn't surprised to find John and the DI huddled at Sherlock's bedside and, somewhere inside of him, he was glad they were there – both of them.

John turned at the sound of footsteps and gave an exhausted smile, "Good morning, Mycroft."

"Doctor Watson, Detective Inspector," Mycroft nodded at them both politely.

"Morning," Greg returned, awkwardness oozing from his body.

John leaned over the back of the bed and Mycroft heard him speak in a gentle voice. "Sherlock…" Standing at the foot of the bed beside Lestrade, Mycroft watched the doctor in his care with Sherlock. John's hand squeezed gently over Sherlock's as he called to him again. "Sherlock?" Reaching up, John rubbed his hand across Sherlock's pale cheek, careful of the tube that hooked across behind his ears.

As the pads of John's fingers smoothed slowly across his face, Sherlock's eyes fluttered wildly before they finally dragged open with fatigue. His tongue lapped at his dry mouth as he turned his head to the right, groaning deep in his throat as he woke from an obviously deep slumber. His eyes closed again, exhausted, but his lips pulled up a drunken smile to his cheeks.

"Look who's here," John said; his voice was a little babying but loving and calming nonetheless.

It took a moment or two, but Sherlock's eyes opened again slowly in time with his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips as he turned his head, scanning room through half-lidded eyes. "Lestrade…" he grumbled sleepily, deep in his throat. "…umm, and M-Mycroft." His face scrunched up in obvious pain but no words escaped his lips to vocally convey it. "To what d-do I own the p-pleasure?"

"Pleasure's all mine, Sherlock." Greg replied, his hands resting on the baseboard of the bed.

"Must be serious," Sherlock's jaw slackened as he yawned and his right hand came up clumsily to rub at his tired right eye. It was a good sign, John thought; he had the strength, albeit minimal, to raise his arm. "Nurses touching me and-and now I have a b-bedside…" he yawned again, his eyes lulling closed and rolling back as the yawn seemed to hold his body rigid for a moment, "…vigil."

"You're not dying, that much is apparent." Mycroft said with his usual tartness but Sherlock's lips dragged once again into a lazy, drunken smile. "How do you feel?" he asked slowly.

"Tired," Was Sherlock's immediate response as his hand weakly trailed down his body, resting on his tummy, and curled his fingers into John's hand.

"Are you any pain?" John asked, Doctor first.

"My head, a bit," Sherlock looked at him through heavy lids and watery eyes. "…and my shoulder."

John looked up at Lestrade at the mention of shoulder pain with a quizzical look pasted onto his sleep-deprived face, "Did he fall against his shoulder?"

Greg nodded, "Yeah I remember Donovan mentioning he sort of skidded against it," he pushed his hands into his pockets. "I'll call them in a bit, get a bit more information and see what I can piece together. She wants to know how he is anyway – the entire floor does." He smirked and John found a warm smile at the gesture.

"Tell them nothing but what is necessary." Mycroft was quick to instruct, "Sherlock's business is just that and I am only too aware of the manner with which your esteemed team address my brother." There was a drip of vicious sarcasm to Mycroft's tone.

"Mycroft," John's voice, though soft, was warning. "They're virtually colleagues, and the closest things to friends we've got. They deserve to know. Not only that, Donovan and Hawkes are our star witnesses; they were there when the shots were fired."

"Who…?" Sherlock's voice pitched in but it was growing weaker.

"We don't know yet," Greg replied warily.

"From the…f-flat?" Sherlock blinked his unfocused eyes and looked to John.

John shook his head to end the conversation, "Sherlock, just relax, OK?" He said, fingers pressed to Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse. "Lestrade's working on it, alright? He's got it all in hand so don't worry, just relax. How's the headache?"

"Bad," Sherlock's nose crinkled up and a tearful grumble escaped his throat.

Greg felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, feeling awkward at Sherlock's vulnerability, "I'll go and find a nurse." He volunteered, "I'll see if they can give his something and I'll call the station while I'm out."

"Thanks, Greg." John called over his shoulder, without looking up, focusing his attention on Sherlock as the dark haired man began to drift back toward sleep with the occasional confused, pain-filled whimper pulling him back from the cusp.

A few moments later, John and Mycroft were joined in the room by a young, male nurse. He was short, slim and tanned and smiled as he approached the bed, carefully extracting John from Sherlock's side so he could work. "Mr Holmes," He spoke carefully and precisely with a South African accent, "I'm Mark. I understand you're in a bit of pain, can you explain it to me?"

Sherlock's groan was deep and throaty as his brow creased, making Mycroft wince. Sherlock's hand rose carefully, resting it on the side of his head above his temple before it felt clumsily to the pillow beside his face. His breathing was a little quick and sharp and John didn't like it.

"OK, in your head. Is it a sharp, stabbing pain or something dull and insistent?" Mark pressed, his fingers pressing to Sherlock's wrist subtly. "Mr Holmes, can you tell me?"

Sherlock's tongue poked across his lips, his eyes fluttering open slowly and landing first on Mycroft. "It hurts," he puffed, his brow creasing deeper.

Mark's strong hand touched Sherlock's shoulder, "OK, not to worry. You're due pain medication very soon so we'll administer than now, OK? It will make you feel drowsy and might cause nausea." He explained and then looked across between Mycroft and John. "If he does feel nauseous or vomits, come to us immediately and we can give him something to settle his stomach." He gave a small, white-toothed smile. Both men nodded in unison.

Mark left momentarily, returning with an emesis basin containing a syringe without a needle and a pair of gloves. Moving to the left side of Sherlock's bed, he pulled the gloves on and coated them in Alco-gel from the bottle clipped to his hip. He pressed the head of the filled syringe to the tap in the back of Sherlock's hand, "Might feel a bit funny," He said, though Sherlock's eyes were closed as his body tried to pull him back to sleep. Mark pushed the plunge down and the liquid moved slowly down the tube and into Sherlock's vein. "It won't take too long for it to start taking effect," He said as he placed the spent syringe into the basin and pulled off his gloves. "Give somebody out on the desk a shout if there's anything at all that you need," he reiterated before turning to leave.

"Thank you," John called out, finding his voice sharp in his throat, eyes on Sherlock as the curly-headed Detective drifted further and further into sleep.

* * *

**Swapped a bit about in this and hopefully it reads less nonsensically now. Beforehand I had Lestrade volunteering to leave and to call the Yard, yet wrote him back in the room! What a dork! Anyway, I'm a a sausage roll with the chapters at the moment so the next one will be up soon. **

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. **

**Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

Alone in a familial surrounding, Mycroft and John stared at the barely conscious man before them. It was obvious that they were thinking the same thoughts but neither was willing to voice them. Only John could truly had any idea as to what lay on the horizon and, even then, his knowledge was purely medical; he'd never lived with and focused on somebody, twenty four seven, after an accident that left them with the injuries Sherlock faced. He was out of his depth and unable to keep afloat without assistance, he knew that survival of his own mental health would depend on his ability to kick against the tide.

"I've begun inquiring about equipment and aid for Sherlock," Mycroft broke into the silence with his deep voice, rumbling and silky. "It would seem there are numerous options to maximise his movements and independent living. There should be no reasons why, if changes are made and the correct aids gathered, that Sherlock could not return to his work within St Bartholomew's; in theory, there is nothing stopping him returning to work with Detective Inspector Lestrade, either."

"That's the thing about theory," John spoke slowly, most of his focus on Sherlock. "It's not practice."

"There are laws in place that state there should be equal opportunities and greater access for individuals with disabilities." Mycroft said firmly, his eyes flicking back to Sherlock without looking up again.

John sighed gently, "You're right about the lab, he'd be an asset to the team and it won't be hard to install lower work benches or have specific shelving units that are of easier access to Sherlock – you could even have standers once he's strong enough, I agree with you." He insisted, "But in terms of fieldwork, leg-work…" John sniffed, arms folding across his chest, "Practicality-wise it's…difficult."

"But not impossible – I'm thinking of Sherlock's mind, he would become bored, dangerous toward himself without the ability to work, something to whet his mind. Thinking of my brother back before he began working with the Police Force, he was dependent upon drugs and alcohol, smoking incessantly and a dangerously volatile person – I don't want that to become his life again, the noise in his head never quietening because he is going to have enough to deal with physically." Mycroft's words dissolved.

"I know you want this to be OK, to be as normal as possible and treat Sherlock as though he's just a little lower down than before but it's not going to disappear under the carpet as easily as that, Mycroft." John's voice remained saintly even. "The next twelve to eighteen months are going to be rough; there is no quick fix, there's no fix at all. This is it now," he spanned out his hands, "And he's as stubborn as hell; if he doesn't want to meet us half way then he won't and he'll go one of two ways – he'll give up completely or he'll fight us the entire rest of his life."

"Or," Mycroft said, his voice strangely light. "He might surprise us yet and become the great man he likes to pretend he is." There was humor intended, John supposed. "Is he aware yet?" He asked, the depth returning to his tone, his shoulders stiffening.

John shook his head, "No – he knows it's serious but I didn't elaborate, he's not fit for it; the lucidity's still a bit intermittent."

"Please," Mycroft turned to look directly at John, "If I'm not the one to tell him, I at least want to be here for him when the news is passed on."

John nodded his head instantly, "Of course." For a moment, silence filled the room so thickly that John could feel it against his cheeks and tightening around his chest. He sighed through his nose, something that was becoming habit, and stepped closer to the bed, watching Sherlock's chest rising and falling. "I don't know how to tell him." he laughed sarcastically through his nose, "Sorry Sherlock, the gunshots damaged your spinal cord and you're paralysed from hips to toes, incontinent and you're being turfed out of Baker Street." he shook his head, looking up at Mycroft. "I can't imagine that one rising up on silver wings."

"He wouldn't appreciate sugar-coating." Mycroft said sternly.

"No, I know, but being too blunt isn't a good tactic with him, either. There are parts of him that fail to process it." John rubbed his stubbled chin, "Maybe I'll do a PowerPoint presentation with daisies and pixies." He chuckled mirthlessly.

"And Pirates," Mycroft submitted, his eyes unfocused as they lay on Sherlock's face. John watched him a moment, his hands wringing together. "He always wanted to be a pirate when he was a child, would only ever wear shirts that had stripes on them because that's how he'd seen them in books." John's lips pulled a gentle smile at the whispering words of the Government official.

"Well he can still be a pirate," John nodded slowly, "More of the 'Lieutenant Dan' approach now though then I assume he was going for in his youth. Good job none of us own a shrimping boat," he grinned and Mycroft's brow creased.

"A what?" He licked his lower lips, eyes brought to examine John's face.

"Lieutenant Dan," John said, shaking his head, "Forrest Gump," he elaborated, "A film that brought about huge success for Tom Hanks…" Mycroft stared back at him, "You and Sherlock really do know nothing about pop-culture, do you?"

"Trivial," Mycroft replied, dismissively.

John smiled to himself, eyes drawn up as Sherlock's nose creased as he slept. It was funny to him how, in the most tragic of times, people could be pulled together. Here was Mycroft, open and suggestive, caring for his little brother in his time of need. Sibling rivalry had a lot to answer for in John's opinion.

* * *

Sally pushed her way into Lestrade's office in search of his binder, knowing that somewhere in it was a number for Sherlock's brother. She knew that he had to be contacted, questions needed to be asked, but she was dreading it. The case they were on last night had been directly provided by Mycroft and was of great importance. She knew that, by now, he would have been informed of Sherlock's status but she needed his official word on the case, trying to pull together as much information as possible on those involved to whittle her way through suspects for the shooting. But it was the blind leading the blind; Mycroft had come to them with no information and she was now going back to him in the same state. She didn't know what she was expecting, but it had to be done.

She sat down into Greg's high-backed chair and flicked through the binder on his desk slowly, biding her time and savouring the silence his closed off office offered compared to the floor outside. Relaxing back a bit she pulled the binder onto her lap and groaned audibly as her mobile buzzed in her pocket. She dropped the folder back onto the desk and reached into her pocket, drawing out her Blackberry. 'Lestrade' flashed on the screen in white letters and she answered the call quickly.

"Sir?"

"Sally-," Greg's voice was quiet and at the use of her first name from her boss, Sally knew she was in for some harsh news.

"How's Freak?" she asked calmly, resting back into the chair again. She was worried for him, naturally; she wasn't so inhumane that she didn't feel a stab of guilt and sorrow at the idea of him being injured. But she wasn't a hypocrite and she would be pandering to him simply because of an injury – her opinions of his ridiculous behaviour and attitude toward her wouldn't be changed overnight because of a bullet. Her long, tan fingers of her free hand ran through her loose, spiral curls.

"Paralysed," Greg said simply, used to her sniping and name-calling by now, and Sally almost laughed.

"Very funny," She breathed flippantly.

"It's not a joke, Donovan." Greg reprimanded with a firm voice, "The two bullets that hit his back have damaged his spinal cord beyond words; the bloke is dead from the waist down." There was gruffness to his voice that Sally hadn't heard since he'd explained to the team that he and his wife were divorcing some years ago. The sound was horrible and she didn't like it.

"God…" She stammered, not sure what to say, and sat upright in the chair, her free hand flying to her mouth. "Jesus."

"Look, I've got to go – keep me up to date with everything, alright? Do whatever you have to do, interview whomever you need to, use everything bloody resource. Find the bastard, Donovan." Greg hurried.

Jerking herself back to life slowly, Sally nodded, "Yeah…" She said, her voice clouded distantly, "…yeah, sure. Of course,"

Before anything more could be said, the line went dead and Sally slowly lowered the phone from her ear. She'd never known anyone injured in this manner before, most of the time shots were fired at officers – or those working for the police – they were wearing vests or were caught in the leg which would see them confined to office work. Or they died. Dying, Sally felt, was something she could have coped with better. Had Lestrade told her that Sherlock was dead, she felt as though she would have been able to contain it better, to process it better with less shock and confusion than knowing he was going to be permanently disabled in one of the most life-changing of ways possible.

She sat for a moment, processing the news, feeling herself transported back twelve hours to be standing over Sherlock's near lifeless body in the pouring rain on Northumberland Street. She tried to remember where the bullets had come from but she couldn't – all she could see was Sherlock's rolling eyes and blood pouring into the cobbles from his back. She felt sick initially and, for a moment, she felt as though Sherlock had gotten his comeuppance; it served him right, she judged, for being such a jumped-up little prick with his posh voice, floppy hair and tailcoat, touting about with his holier than thou psychopathic tendencies. And then the sickness came back, hard and thick in her stomach like rocks and she felt terrible. She rose unsteadily to her feet; she had to tell everyone else.

* * *

Greg returned to the room to find it shrouded mostly in silence, broken only by snuffled breaths from Sherlock. Mycroft stood at the foot of Sherlock's bed, occasionally tapping at his phone but mostly with his eyes on his brother, hands braced against the baseboard. John was all but attached to Sherlock, fingers laced in the Detective's whilst he slumbered. "I told Donovan," he spoke into the quiet and Mycroft and John turned to look at him.

"Oh," Mycroft brows rose. "And her reaction, I would assume, was something of indifference?"

"No," Greg frowned, "She actually asked about him before I mentioned his name and when I told her the outcome, she seemed shocked." He looked at John, "I told her to knuckle down and make sure they do all they can on this to secure a conviction."

"Hard to convict without a suspect, isn't it Detective Inspector?" Mycroft's brow furrowed down in contrast and his voice dripped sarcastically from his spread tongue. "You usually require somebody to blame in order to convict them."

"We'll get whoever it was," Lestrade bristled.

Mycroft let a laugh escape through his nose, pacing a little at the foot of the bed before resuming his stance, "Yes, Detective Inspector," He looked menacingly at Greg, "Yes – I'm sure you will."

* * *

**Once again there were quite a lot of changes to this - I reformatted most of it because I had removed Greg and had to re-institute him at the end for the next chapter to flow. It should be up later/tomorrow!**

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story.**

**Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

Stepping quietly from Lestrade's office, Sally took a deep breath in an attempt to calm the nervous tremors that had erupted, taking her by surprise. "Guys," She called out, almost immediately silencing the floor. "Can I just have your attention for a moment?" every set of eyes turned to her and she took another deep breath. "I was just talking to Lestrade about Sherlock Holmes. It's not great news," She paused.

"He died?" Hawkes spoke up, spooked.

"No, no, he's very much alive. But he'll probably never be working with us again." Sally elaborated, "He's paralysed, from the waist down." A thunderous rumble of groans and gasps erupted around her. Hawkes' face displayed confusion as he tried to work it all out, not sure if he was shocked, sickened or…what? "He's stable and he's doing OK, generally, but Lestrade wants us buckle down and draw in the case. He's adamant we find the guy – or guys – who did this."

"And they are?" Officer Berkley asked – new to the team, she found Sherlock a dream boat and a genius and a sad frown settled onto her face at the news.

"Exactly," Sally sighed, "I'm as shocked by this as anyone else, but that doesn't mean I can magic up a suspect. Lestrade's…making promises to him, you know what's like. I was there, I saw nothing. We've got no chance of solving this one; it was a blind accident." She shrugged her shoulders somewhat huffily.

"Compassionate as ever, Donovan." Dimmock clapped his hands together mockingly, an eyebrow cocked in sarcasm.

"I'm not a hypocrite." She licked her bottom lip, "I'm not going to suddenly start acting like he deserves my adoration because his disabled. He's a freak, in a wheelchair or not and I'm not going to pretend otherwise. But I'm not completely devoid of emotion, it's sad that this has happened."

"Regardless," Dimmock pressed on, "It was a crime, a shooting, in the middle of London and as police officers it's sort of our job to go out there and find out who did it. Like it or not, Donovan, I'm _Detective Inspector_ and it's me you answer to." He set his eyes on the woman firmly, "Briefing tomorrow at nine am on the dot," he addressed everyone. "In the meantime, find out whatever you can on Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes and go over that flat with a fine-fucking-toothed comb."

Watching everybody bustle back to work, Peter Anderson approached Sally and placed his hands on her thin biceps. Pulling her close, despite the eyes of the office, he placed a soft kiss on her smooth forehead, "I'm a bit freaked out by this as well," he muttered, "Don't let Dimmock get to you."

"He's welcome to the Freak, both self-important little…"

"I know," Peter cut in with a smirk, his voice low and unimpressed. "C'mon, we'll do the fieldwork. Pay Sherlock an information-gathering visit. We'll talk with him and John Watson at the hospital."

"Fieldwork," Sally's brows shot up, "You're on Forensics, Peter, you can't use that excuse to get out of the office the same way I can." She smiled despite herself. "Besides, we can't, not at the minute. It's not fair on them, and Lestrade's there."

"Then we visit as concerned colleagues." He suggested.

"Why would I want to do that?" Sally practically spat in the man's face, her arms folding across her flat chest. "Oh, hi Freak, just thought I'd come and see how you are now that you can't walk. Here, have some grapes and Lucozade."

"Admit it," Peter said calmly, ignoring her babble, "You're worried about him." his eyes widened at Sally and, slowly, she offered an honest not. "Me too – no, he's not our favourite person and ninety-nine percent of the time he's an arrogant git and it's obvious, but nobody wants to see somebody they know end up like this and it's a bit of a shock." His response drew a small, sincere and slightly sad smile from Sally's full lips. "C'mon, get your coat. We'll go to the hospital."

Sally followed Peter from the station and into his unassuming Ford Focus in the car park. Their drive to the hospital was a quiet one, both considering their feelings and wondering why they both felt so shafted by the news when, more often than not, Sherlock's presence was an unwelcomed on in their lives. "They're not going to want us here," Sally finally said as Peter brought the car to a stop in the hospital's vast car park some time later. "John barely tolerates us and Sherlock's not going to want us here at all. He hates us, Peter." She turned on him with sad eyes.

"He doesn't," he voice flowed out with a sigh, "He's indifferent to us and enjoys calling us names. Granted, most of the time I can't stand him but right now what he needs is support and I can give it and so can you." He reached across and took Sally's hand in his own. "If this gains nothing else, it'll at least show that we had enough respect to come here at all." He looked at her expectantly and smiled when she nodded, reaching out her free hand to open the car door.

They weren't usually as open about their relationship as they were today, particularly as Peter's divorce had only just been finalised and their relationship had been a sore topic. Mostly, though, it was down to Sally never having been one to be very forthcoming with her emotions. Angry she could do, disgust was an easy one, too, but opening up and being sentimental and loving was hard. But with Peter, it had been different. She'd always just 'been' with him.

Sally asked at reception for directions to the ICU and smiled as they were passed on from the busy receptionist with an overworked smile. Unlacing her arm from Peter's, they walked with only the sound of Sally's small heels between them, the smells and sights of the hospital making her throat constrict. They passed through double doors and marched down corridors, taking lifts and turning corners until they finally found the Intensive Care Unit. Cleaning their hands with the provided Alco-gel pump on the wall, they pushed through the double doors with their hips and walked in ever-thickening silence along the dimly-lit corridor. It was the sound of Greg Lestrade's voice from far down the corridor that assured them they were heading in the right direction.

Taking reassurance from Sally, Peter preceded her into the room, surprised to be met by jovial voices; they had rather been expecting something wholly more sombre. "Morning," His default tone raised an octave.

"Anderson," Greg's brows crooked up. "Donovan,"

"Hi," Sally stepped in, "We just wanted to-," She waved her hand at Sherlock's bed. She had been about to say 'pay our respects' but knew that the sentiment wasn't quite right. "Check on the patient," She amended as quickly as she could think.

John, though surprised, had to admit he was pleased to see them; it made him feel warm inside to know that people cared enough to visit. "Thank you," his slightly confused frown settled, "But he's pretty out of it at the moment – they've got him on strong pain killers and they're keeping him pretty much comatose most of the time."

Mycroft eyed the officers silently. He'd known immediately who they were – confirmed, then, by Greg's words – and he wasn't about to be shy in conveying his disgust toward them. He knew how they viewed and treated his brother and he wasn't one for offering respect out where it wasn't first offered, very much of the opinion that it was something you earned.

"Does he know yet?" Sally asked, her arms locked nervously across her chest.

"Not to the full extent, no but we can't put off telling him or asking him questions much longer. Oh, is that why you're here?" John frowned more deeply, eyes flicking between the two officers, "You were hoping to ask him questions?"

"No, no." Peter shook his head, "Really just came to see how he is."

"How _is_ he?" Sally asked, licking her lips. "I mean, what's the outlook?"

"Bleak," Mycroft muttered, "A good stretch different to what it was yesterday. Had you and your team been doing your job correctly, this wouldn't be the case."

"Mycroft," Greg turned with a serious glare in his eyes. Right now he was DI Lestrade and he meant business. Mycroft's frame and vicious stare didn't relax and Greg reached out, placing a hand on his chest. "Mycroft," he said firmly. "This isn't the time, nor the place. And you're inaccurate," he warned in a low tone, "Calm down."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Sally spoke up, "but I was doing my job correctly. I was escorting your amateurish brother to a scene he shouldn't have been at as per _your_ request. But, yes, I do feel responsible if that makes you feel better." There was a glitch in her voice and it spooked John. Sally was nothing if not steady. "We couldn't have prevented what happened no more than you could. I wish I could have stopped it happening and not because I failed _him_, but because I failed at my job. And maybe you're right; maybe I wasn't doing my job correctly after all because, if I was, your bloody brother wouldn't have been there in the first place because I wouldn't have let him."

"Do you simply forget that you are paid to serve and protect the public or is it just that the only 'public' with you was Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft's voice was deep and harsh but, some might argue, not wholly unreasonable. "What is it you call him, Ms Donovan? Freak?"

"You're angry, I get it, Mr Holmes as I understand that Sherlock and John will be too. I didn't stop the bad guys last night, no but, you know what? Neither did Sherlock and neither, Mr Holmes, did you." Sally's chin wobbled but she kept her composure.

"Sargent Donovan, it's alr…" John couldn't finished his sentence and sighed, watching as Sally turned and left, abandoning Peter in the middle of the floor.

"I should…" he pointed hit thumb over his shoulder.

"Go on," Lestrade's firm nod excused the tall, slim man quickly. Hands on his hips, Greg looked between Mycroft and John and then settled on the eldest Holmes. "You provoked that." He warned but Mycroft said nothing, he simply crossed the room, collected his belongings and left without a word. "Great," Greg threw out his hands and rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. He rubbed his temples and fixed his gazed on John. "I'm getting a headache."

"Stress and grief," John said simply and Lestrade found himself unable to argue. "You don't think I don't want to do that? You think that I haven't thought about blowing up? Because, I have – God, I bit Mycroft's head off at around three am." John licked his lips, his knuckles white as he hung onto the bar on the bed. "He's angry and Donovan gave him back as good as he gave out. She was pretty bloody insulting, actually, but she was honest and I admire her for that. There's probably a part of her that secretly feels horrific about all of this because at the end of the day, Lestrade, Mycroft's right; she was the officer in charge and whilst with him he's her responsibility. And, while I don't blame her," he said as Greg's face paled, "I understand Mycroft's anger was aimed at her because he knows that fact, too. Greg, she was there and so he's passing the buck, he's blaming her. Don't tell me you've never needed somebody to blame before?"

"I can't." Greg laughed mirthlessly.

"Exactly. She and Mycroft just butted heads; half of it was down to them both being stubborn and half of it was because they're both right." John rubbed the back of his neck, aching and tight. "Cut them both some slack, or better yet bang their bloody heads together." he smirked and Greg matched it.

"How do you do it?" he asked.

"What?" John's mouth drew down quizzically.

"This," Greg gestured, "See your life falling apart and stay so calm."

John shrugged up one shoulder, "I'm not calm, but I loved Sherlock and I didn't fall in love with him because he could walk, I fell in love with him. Everything's horrible and I'm angry, but he's still Sherlock.2 He inhaled slowly, "And it's not that I'm not upset, because I am – God, I am, I'm so angry, but it's going to get me anywhere to stomp my feet and sob; that's not going to get us somewhere to live, or fix Sherlock. Maybe I'll hit a wall and I'll break but until that happens I need to be here for him and be as calm as I can be. I dunno," he shrugged, "Maybe two tours of Afghanistan have really helped settle my nerves. You've seen nothing until you see the battlefield."

Greg watched John's face carefully before he lowered his gaze and flicked his eyes over Sherlock as the dark-haired man groaned and moved, his neck stretching slowly as he gently turned his head, beginning to wake. "I'll leave you two alone for a while," he pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. "Call me if you need anything."

"I know, I will. Thanks, Greg." John gave a quick nod. "Oh – and if you see Mycroft out there, just ask him to give me ten minutes here on my own?" Greg nodded his understanding silently, walking on. "Thanks." John called after him, then offered Sherlock his full attention.

* * *

**While I kept Sally's emotion, I cleaned up the argument a little and made her a little colder than before and also filled the chapter a little, allowing me to break off and do Sherlock leaning of his condition in one, full chapter which is much better, save dividing it. Much happier. :)**

**Thank you to Hannah for her continued support!**

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story.**

**Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock's back writhed against the sheets, his head turning back the other way uncomfortably, his nose wrinkled, before his eyes began to flutter open. John was the first thing he saw and it pulled another of those drunken, loose smiles to his thick lips, still marred with cuts. "I dreamed about us," he spoke with alarming clarity compared to his voice earlier that morning and then the bridge of his nose scrunched again, endearing John to him immensely in the childlike innocence of it.

"Good dream, I hope?" John said, tilting his head.

"No," Sherlock blinked slowly, couching pitifully to clear his throat, "John…" his voice whispered out, eyes wet.

"What?" John's voice matched the waver in Sherlock's; he saw and he observed – he knew what was coming and braced himself for it.

"I can't feel my legs," John didn't know what to say but the look of confusion that claimed Sherlock's face constricted his throat painfully. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone – he couldn't do this without Mycroft – and quickly sent a text:

**He's awake and asking questions, we need to tell him.  
- JW**

"John," Sherlock's voice rocked and his hand reached out to grab John's.

"It's alright," John took the outstretched fingers in his tightly, "It's alright."

Sherlock shook his head, curls rustling against the pillow, "No, it's not." The Detective's voice croaked in the back of his throat. John shushed him quickly, watching the tears prickling in the blue eyes before him. Raising his left hand to his face, the drip line dragging with it, Sherlock pushed the humiliating tears from his eyes with the heel of his palm. "What's happening to me?" he asked slowly. "Facts, John." He demanded, "Tell me!" John smoothed his thumb across Sherlock's hand in his own and waited impatiently for his phone to vibrate with a response from Mycroft. He didn't know what to say, he didn't want to cause any upset for anyone but seeing Sherlock this way was breaking him in two.

"It's alright; just try to calm down." John said carefully, pushing his phone back into his pocket and gave Sherlock his complete attention. "We'll talk through it, alright, but I need you to calm down or there is going to be a tonne of doctors and nurses in here who'll take over. Take it easy," he gripped Sherlock's tightly-gripping hand in both of his own.

"No," Sherlock gritted his teeth, frustration thrumming through him, "Tell me properly!" he winced, pain in his head worsening as his blood-pressure rose.

Extracting one hand from Sherlock's grip, John swiped it gently across Sherlock's unwashed curls, "I'll tell you everything, I promise, but you need to take it easy. You've been shot, Sherlock. If you're not careful, you'll tear your wounds and bleed out and that's a horrific way to die." John's voice firmed and Sherlock became slightly more pliant. "Breath calmly or you'll hyperventilate. I text your brother, he's coming I promise, and when he gets here we'll talk about it together."

Sherlock inhaled steadily, blowing air through his pursed lips and gritted teeth. John could see the tears in Sherlock's glassy blue eyes and knew that the Detective would never let them fall unless all control was lost. He hated to see Sherlock so painfully upset, had from the moment he met him, and that feeling was magnified with the helplessness of his current situation. "That's it," John soothed, his hand back on Sherlock's forehead, "Steady." He could feel the tremble through Sherlock's entire body and hated it. "I'm sorry," he whispered, leaning over the bed to press his forehead to Sherlock's temple. "I'm so sorry."

It was this way that Mycroft found them a few moments later as he stepped into the ICU with bile bubbling at the back of his throat. Silently, he removed his coat and hung it over the chair it had occupied earlier. He inhaled deeply and stepped closer to the bed, his footsteps rousing John.

"Have you told him yet?" Mycroft asked, examining Sherlock's red-eyes and pursed lips, reading him in an instant. It said in many, many words 'I'm terrified'.

"No," John sniffed and it was clear he'd been crying. "I was waiting for you, trying to calm him down." He cleared his throat.

Mycroft nodded minutely and moved around to the other side of the bed. He reached out his hand almost nervously and touched the crook of Sherlock's arm. The white pock marks of his past were silver and evident against his blue veins and pale flesh and made Mycroft's throat constrict and stomach drop. He let his fingers curl a little, gripping lightly against his brother's arm.

"He's here," Sherlock breathed in and it looked painful, "So now you can tell me." His wet eyes flicked over John, and then his brother and he drew his bottom lip between his teeth to still his chin as it bobbed.

John took an unsteady breath in and eyed Mycroft with expectancy. He wanted the man to take over, to lead the conversation and break the news that had already shattered his own world yet, at the same time, he didn't. He needed to do this, for his own sake as well as Sherlock's. He sniffed, emotions high, and wet his lips.

"John!" Sherlock's face creased deeply, "Please?"

John nodded, "OK. OK – you were shot. Three bullets." He blurted, not sure that sugar coating it would make a difference but not wanting to be blunt and make it harder, either. "Your spinal cord is beyond repair, Sherlock; there's nothing the surgeons could do. The damage was so great that it has caused paralysis from here," he reached down and placed his hand on Sherlock's hip over the blankets.

"No," Sherlock blinked, "I can feel that. Your hand, I can – I can feel your hand."

John's eyes flicked up to Mycroft and then, slowly, he moved his hand a little further down Sherlock's waist, still atop the blankets, no more than a centimetre and then another and then he saw the flash on Sherlock's face when the weight of John's hand was no longer felt against his limbs. The space of three finger-widths from his sharp hipbones was where the numbness began. John closed his eyes in sympathy as Sherlock drew in a breath quickly and then exhaled it rapidly, breathing ragged, tears falling at last.

Mycroft's breath hitched, "Sherlock-," his milky tones were ignored as Sherlock's head tipped back, his jaw stretched wide, and a painful sob escaped his open mouth. Mycroft hadn't seen his brother cry since he was in his teens – very early in his teens at that – and the sight wasn't a fond memory, making his chest ache and his palms sweat. He tightened his fingers on Sherlock's arm as the Detective's face screwed up and he turned his head toward John, tears flooding the corner of his eye before dripping across the scrunched bridge of his nose and into the opposite eye. Sherlock tugged his arms sharply from Mycroft's grasp, the IV line rattling against the bed at the swift movement, "Sherlock, please," Mycroft's voice edged closer to unease at being denied the ability to comfort the younger man and sighed to stem his emotions off quickly.

"Mycroft," John blinked the dampness from his lashes, his hands captured tightly in Sherlock's, "Maybe just…, maybe don't touch him?" his mouth bobbed, searching for words. "It's shock, he's in shock." He stammered out, finally.

"Get out." Sherlock's voice was hoarse but firm and he pulled away from John's hands.

"I just want to be sure that you're alright, Sherlock." Mycroft stood strongly, his jaw setting firm.

Sherlock sniffed, wiping his arm across his damp, red face, "No – I'm not. I'm not OK. Not even close. Get. Out." The words fired in this throat, growing at John and Mycroft. "Get out!" John startled, jumping back at the ferocity of Sherlock's voice. "Get out! Get out, just leave me alone…" his face sharpened, desperate to cry but refusing to do it and he glared up to the ceiling with venom.

Glancing at Mycroft, John puffed out his chest and granted Sherlock his wish. He turned, leaving the room with an authoritative march; he didn't want to be angry, he didn't want to come across as though he didn't understand Sherlock's emotion, but he hadn't planned on Sherlock's reaction being so deeply horrific. Then again, how else was one to accept the news? What had he expected, anyway - a nod, a 'not to worry'?

Mycroft followed him, moving only a short distance from the room before he spoke. "Coffee, Doctor Watson?" he asked, "There is an ill-equipped but adequate coffee shot a small walk away; Sherlock is going to need a considerable amount of time to himself so it would be best to occupy ourselves rather than linger in the corridor when we're not wanted."

John stared at him, angered and awed equally, and nodded, "Yes." He finally sighed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers, "Yes, coffee would be…fine." If he didn't walk, if he didn't agree, then he would stand and stew and mostly likely sob and where would that get him? Where would it get Sherlock? Nowhere.

"Suffice to say, Doctor Watson, Sherlock is not quite as hard to understand as he would have you believe." Mycroft muttered, walking with his hands behind his back and his shoulders rolled. John sniffed a laugh through his nose. "Emotion shows itself more readily on his features then he would care to accept and he is easy to read if you were to look. Sherlock is neither deaf nor stupid, either. But, he is hopeful – he is infinitely hopeful."

"I'm not sure what you're getting at?" John frowned, confused, and pulled open the large door before them, preceding Mycroft through into the corridor.

Mycroft smiled – falsely – and tilted his head slightly as he followed John, stepping in beside him. "The first thing that would have crossed Sherlock's mind in any moments of lucidity would have been the distinct lack of feeling in his extremities. Dazed as the medication has made him, I doubt he has been so artificially high that he had failed to notice he was unable to move or read the cues of his body. But I am certain that he had the hope, the faith if you will that things might improve. Your confirmation – as that is exactly what it was; you telling him was not news, it was confirmation of something he already knew – only served to fracture that hope. He had hoped, Doctor Watson, and knowing that you didn't share that same hope, offering him the news, quashed it. That is why he is upset, that is why he is grieving."

John's frowned deepened, his mouth drawing down. "What?"

Mycroft took a deep breath and gave John a withering look of condescension. "He is crying out of lost hope that things could improve, not out of shock." He simplified. "He had hoped that you would make it all OK, telling him of his injuries and fate extinguished that hope – he is helpless, hopeless, and so he is emotional." His shoulders rose up a little before settling back down again firmly.

John supposed that Mycroft was right; Sherlock was not a fool and if there was anything Mycroft completely knew – without falter – it was his brother. He didn't doubt that Sherlock had been in possession of at least some knowledge of his condition but he hadn't really thought about it much and so when Mycroft's words finally registered, they both stung and made perfect sense at the same time. "Just another thing I can't off then," he said, dryly.

"In line with?" Mycroft asked.

"I can't fix him and I can't allow him the hope that he can be fixed." John stopped, just shy of the coffee shop's entrance; it was bustling with people, mostly parents of children dotted around the wards and operating rooms across the hospital but there were more hopeful faces in there, too, smattered with the odd off-duty doctor or nurse. He scanned them, wondering what kinds of blows they had received today, remembering that he used to be one of those delivering it, not receiving it.

"Sherlock has had a lifetime of disappointment; it wouldn't do to break the habit." Mycroft dropped his brows.

"That's not funny," John sniffed.

"It was not intended to be, Doctor Watson." Mycroft exhaled, "Sherlock is stronger than you give him credit for – once he comes to terms with the reality, determination will return. It will just take a bit of time and that is why," he nodded toward the café, "You and I are here for an awfully common cup of coffee, to undoubtedly stare at one another with the inability to find the right words."

John eyed him; he was as peculiar was his brother and just as charming, too, but twice as manipulative and – John didn't wonder – vindictive in his intelligence. Keener than Sherlock in his ability to read people, he knew Mycroft saw through him as though he were as transparent as a whiskey tumbler. "Yes," he said simply on an exhale of stifled breath and turned into the café.

* * *

**Fundamentally the same, I kept the emotion as before because I actually liked it. Switched a few of Mycroft's lines and cleaned up some of John's. More up soon!**

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story.**

**Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock listened to the dissipation of their footsteps and did best to calm the heaving in his chest. Raising both hands up, he placed them on his chest, covering in the region of his nipples beneath the gown, and began slowly slipping them down his body. He pushed down a little, exacting pressure against his torso, and let his fingers probe, dipping – gown and all – into the small cleft of his tummy button and down further until the gown disappeared and was replaced by loose-fitting boxer-shorts and the feel of the thin line of the catheter that an out of the leg on the left side. His fingers could feel his hips, his legs, the shorts, the tiny, auburn hairs on his thighs but his legs couldn't feel him. Balling his hands into fists, he slapped down hard, pummelling into the sides of his thighs with abandon and screwed his eyes up before pulling his arms up sharply. He held both arms in his face as his chin trembled. He couldn't feel a thing; not an ache, not a tingle, not a forming bruise from his thumps. He didn't even feel numbness; he just felt emptiness – nothingness.

His breath escaped through his nose raggedly and, in pure temper, he reached down and tugged the oxygen line away, dragging it from behind his ears, letting it fall against his chest, offering sporadic hisses as it leaked oxygen. He placed the fingers of his right hand around the cannula in the back of his left with every intention of ribbing it away but found the trembling in his fingertips and blur to his vision make the task impossible. His resolve faltered and he dropped his hands back to the mattress, jutting his jaw out as he stared at the panelled ceiling above him. He'd had enough now – John needed to come back now. He couldn't do this alone. All kinds of words and images of what it meant to him to be paralysed ran through his mind and they stung. He had no idea how to be confined to a wheelchair; how was he supposed to do it?

It took a few moments of silent and internal coaxing for him setting into calmer breathing but the time it took to get there dizzied his head. He felt nauseous, his head aching as it spun. He reached across with his right hand, rubbing in gentle circles on his chest as if to appease indigestion. Bile rose bitterly in his throat and he knew he was going to vomit. He swallowed, feeling a cold sweat stroke over him and the unmistakable bubble in his stomach that tucked up beneath his rips, rising up, up, up. He couldn't call out in time but turned his head to the left as a particularly violent retch saw him evacuate liquid with difficulty. He choked and retched again, the bile burning his throat painfully and he spat in an attempt to clear the foul substance from his mouth. He coughed another mouthful out in time with the arrival of a male and female nurse.

"Alright, not to worry." The young female nurse said - her voice was soothing but not condescending. "Do you feel like you might vomit again?" She asked, walking to the bed, right up in Sherlock's face as she rounded his side and carefully rocked him into his side. Both of the nurses held the Detective still in an unfavourable recovery position as he retched a fourth time, this time vomiting a little more profusely, soaking his cheek, the sheets and the scrubs of the female nurse as he coughed horribly. "Get it all up," She mumbled, her hand working gently between his tense shoulder blades.

"I'll get some fresh bedding," The male nurse spoke up over the sound of him snapping on gloves, standing behind Sherlock. "And a fresh gown?" he asked.

"Yeah, and some spares." She smiled gently. "Feeling better?" She turned her full attention on Sherlock. "I know the pain relief can make you feel a bit rotten." One gloved hand held Sherlock on his side with a firm but gentle grip on his ribs whilst the other began to move the sheet back with ease. "I'm Emma." She told him with a twinkling-eyed smile.

Sherlock sighed, swallowing the bitter, acrid liquid that lingered in his mouth and burned his nose. "Can I have some water?"

"Of course, let's just wait a moment for Alex to get back and we'll have you cleaned up and then I'll make sure you have plenty to drink, alright?" She said with a nod, knowing she couldn't very well move away when her patient was unable to support himself. Before Sherlock was even aware of it, Emma had the soiled sheet from beneath him and in a ball with the sodden pillow on the floor, leaving him lay on the waterproof mattress, covered with an unsoiled blanket. "You did well, actually," Emma smiled with jest, "Most people usually end up getting it over the blankets, but you were quite contained." Her joke landed well and, despite feeling awful, Sherlock's jaw twitched.

"Practice," he hissed, his head aching more firmly and his arm beginning to deaden beneath him. "Very sickly child-," he blinked slowly. He felt embarrassed, humiliated and exposed but he couldn't find the words or exasperation to express his discomfort at the closeness. "Um…John…" he blinked, his eyes a little clouded.

"Doctor Watson?" Emma asked him, just as Alex returned with sheets and gowns and an arm full of emesis basins.

"He's with my brother," Sherlock groaned a little as Emma pulled him closer to her whilst Alex set about remaking the bed – to their credit, they were trying to do it as carefully as possible without disturbing Sherlock's body too much and they were doing a good job.

"Probably gone for a cuppa," Emma placated gently, her gloved hands even more gentle as she turned Sherlock onto his opposite side and waited for Alex to support him before she walked around there to meet Sherlock, allowing Alex to continue with fixing on the sheet. She was dedicated to patient care, quite clearly, and Sherlock warmed to her as much as he ever could to anyone. She was treating him with dignity and distraction and whilst he was impossible to distract, he appreciated her efforts. "Would you like me to find them for you once you're settled?" Sherlock's nod in response was small and he grimaced as he was carefully guided to lie back onto his back. "Alright," Emma said with ease, her touch gentle on his shoulder. "Would you like me to help you clean up, or do you think you can manage? We have a flannel and a basin and we can fill it up with warm water from the sink in the corner."

"What…um, John…" Sherlock began, raising his hand to his face in discomfort, rubbing his hands at the side of his head, feeling sticky and dirty at the streaks of vomit in his hair.

"Listen," Emma placed her hand on Sherlock's, "How about I sent Alex in search of your brother and Doctor Watson and then I can help you get cleaned up in the meantime? If you're feeling too nauseous lying flat I can raise your head slightly," She said with authority, keeping him calm, yet still with gentle clarity.

Sherlock nodded weakly, feeling as though every inch of his normal personality had been drained from him; he had no fight left, no anger and no ability to yell the 'fuck off and leave me alone, I am not a child and don't treat me like one' that desperately wanted to fall from his parted lips. He felt too sick, to tired and alone and lost. Half of him was broken and he wasn't sure if he'd ever feel whole again.

* * *

The café was quiet and filled and emptied intermittently. Sitting opposite Mycroft, John felt indescribably uncomfortable as he stared into what barely passed for a mug of hot coffee. Still, he held the mug – warm against his fingers – between both hands and sighed, "I don't know what we're going to do." He broke their silence, looking around then down at his cup, anything to avoid eye contact with Mycroft. "We can't stay at Baker Street – not only isn't it financially viable but it's not practical. I need to keep in the city, close enough to get to work and I know Sarah will give me as many shifts as I want but at the same time he's going to need me at home for a while." He forced himself to look up, "Look," he licked his lips nervously, "I'm going to need all the help I can get. Sherlock's not going to accept carers and I don't want that for him, either. I'm going to need…_your_ help."

"Whatever I can provide to make life easier for my brother, and for you, is a given Doctor Watson. Accommodation, assistance, equipment or care; whatever you need, I will ensure you have it, you need only tell me. As a medical professional, off the top of your head, what is it you'll need initially; just in order to allow Sherlock to come home quickly and safely." Mycroft held his untouched coffee in his right hand.

"Home's a long way off," John rubbed the back of his aching neck, glancing around as the café began to fill slowly.

"Yes, but what is needed? I can have a new home with equipment and assistance in place if I know exactly what is needed now." Mycroft's voice hardened slightly, as though tetchy toward John's barriers.

"A chair," John exhaled, "The NHS will provide something standard but he'll need something to suit his needs and support him where he's weaker. Given the location of his injury, he's going to need a chair that completely supports his hips and back to mid-waist." He thought aloud. "In terms of housing, wherever we go needs to have wide-access doors, ramps, easy-access bathroom, varied height units and presses in the kitchen. Erm…" he stopped, rubbing his tired eyes and sighed. "It's not an initial need by any means, but standing frames would be ideal for Sherlock, given the nature of his personality – anything we can do to offer independence we need to do it,"

Mycroft felt the heaviness in the atmosphere from John's words, the emotion thick on his face and nodded gently, "Get me a list of everything, even housing, whether it's initially needed or not and I will have everything arranged." His nod was firm and sobering.

Blinking, "Thank you," was all John could muster.

They fell silent a moment, staring off into space. Mycroft's mind raced with possibilities whilst John's swam with memories. Mycroft's eyes floated over those gathered around them in the café, wondering why they were here and what they'd been told. He could read most of them easily; knowing most of them weren't here for a brief visit or good news. He reasserted himself, fixing his features, terrified but not willing to show it. All the while, John's mind finally allowed him to go over the negative; he'd been so focused on being positive that the void of sadness felt wider at being avoided.

"I think our company is required," Mycroft's voice broken into John's thoughts and the Doctor looked over his shoulder, spotting a nurse heading toward them. "I'm not so sure he is certain he has the right people." Mycroft almost sounded sarcastic as he painted a smile on his face when the nurse drew closer.

"Doctor Watson and Mr Holmes?" He asked, nervously.

"Yes," John nodded, brow creasing.

Alex's face softened in relief, "Mr Holmes is asking for you both," he explained, gaining confidence. Both men immediately rose to their feet, chair squeaking against the floor.

"Is he OK?" John's face paled.

"Yes," Alex asserted quickly, "He's quite alright. The medication he is receiving for pain management can make patients feel nauseous. He vomited and is a little lethargic and uncomfortable and just asked that we come and find you both, I think familiar faces would be more of a comfort to him right now." He smiled, "We just changed his bedding and fixed him into a clean and comfortable gown. Another of the ICU nurses, Emma, is with him at the moment so he's not alone. When I left the room, they were discussing the benefits of a perfectly brewed cup of tea." Alex offered by way of mollification and did the trick for John.

"Ah," he smirked, "Yeah, don't get him started on tea – or anything for that matter." He walked quickly but steadily behind Alex with Mycroft close behind. "The only thing he'll correct you on sooner is tobacco and the periodic table." John's eyebrow arched and, despite himself, Mycroft gave a knowing, breathy laugh.

"Emma's the woman for the tea-talk," Alex kept up the gentle conversation as they returned to the ICU, "But Bill, who mostly works nights, would certain give him a run for his money on tobacco." He smiled gently, stopping at the entrance into Sherlock's small room to allow John and Mycroft to enter first.

John peered in with bright eyes at the sight that greeted him – Sherlock's upper body was raised, surrounded by pillows and support for stability, and his face had a small flush of colour to his cheeks that was a grateful sight. There were two new, more comfortable-looking seats in the room, one on the right side and the other in the far corner. Standing on the left side, Emma tilted her head to John with a broad smile, "Doctor Watson," she beamed, "We were just talking about you."

"All good, I hope," John folded his arms nervously across his chest and stepped closer to the bed, strangely glad of Mycroft's presence directly behind him – large and comforting in an unexpected manner.

"No," Sherlock breathed uneasily, "None of it." A small, sad smile tugged the left cheek and John had to hold his breath to avoid tearing up. Sherlock's dark hair was damp from being washed and his head was comfortably nestled in a crisp, V-shaped pillow that slipped around his neck and shoulders. His eyes seemed so much brighter, or John hoped they did; maybe they were just clearer, no longer bothered by the nausea he'd been silent about and the sleep he'd been drugged into?

Emma smiled and shook her head, "Of course it was all good," She mocked a stared of disgust in Sherlock's direction, stepping away from the bed to allow Mycroft and John to close in on Sherlock. "He's just had a little something to settle his stomach and, if he's up to in in a while, we can pop back and see about something small to eat. We'll look into moving him somewhere a little more comfortable once the drain is out of his thigh, maybe tomorrow if he's feeling strong enough." She said carefully, directing her conversation at John.

"Thank you," He nodded, arms falling down to grip the bar at the side of the bed, the tops of which were hidden beneath the new provisions that curled around Sherlock to allow him complete support. John hoped that Sherlock would be in a position to support his back himself – certain from earlier when he had placed his hands against Sherlock's hips that he had the strength and feeling – but he knew that the hospital staff liked to skate on the side of caution and he rather suspected that it made Sherlock feel a little more secure, too. Without a word, Emma disappeared on silent feel and, after watching her go, John turned back to Sherlock with a soft, emotional smile. "You OK?"

Sherlock's cheek twitched and he gently examined his hands in his lap. It was only then, as he raised his head again, that John took note of the missing oxygen line. "Yeah," he nodded, his brow furrowed and curls pushed back in a manner that Mycroft didn't see very often, making him look so, so young and far too vulnerable. His eyes looked lost without their curly fringe, but Mycroft rather thought that that was down to the Detective feeling lost over all.

"Are there any questions you wanted to ask, anything you're not sure of or need to know?" John pressed on, becoming a Doctor before a partner.

"Like what?" Sherlock sighed and John noted the more steady level to his voice. "I know what the word paralysed means, John." His eyebrows quirked upward in the way he did when people bored him and Mycroft deemed this a very, very good sign; if he was bored, his mind was intact.

"I think he more means is there anything you need to know or need explaining, not just questions about…the situation." Mycroft's voice rumbled from his chest.

"When can I go home?" Sherlock looked up, eyes to his big brother, impossibly small and innocent.

"Not yet," John chipped, "I don't know when but it won't be before a week at the very, very least. You were shot, Sherlock – it's not just something you're going to bounce back from. You've an injury to your thigh which needs tending to; it's not just your spine. You had a pretty good bump to the head when you fell, too." John frowned, his tone insistent. "Be reasonable,"

"I found out a half hour ago that I am never going to walk again, John. I think my lack of reasoning is justified." He huffed. "What are they doing about it anyway," he groaned, his head rolling between his brother and partner on the soft pillow.

"What are who doing about what?" John asked, lowering himself into the chair at the bedside, sighing at the comfort.

"Lestrade and his band of Merry Men," Sherlock sniffed, "The case; are they focussing on the case?" his hands gestured wildly.

John couldn't stifle the laugh in time and it jumped loudly from his throat, "Only you could be concerned about a bloody case whilst all but tied to a bed in intensive care." he shook his head in disbelief and then looked up at Mycroft, standing like an awkward ornament beside the bed.

"Well, are they?" Sherlock frowned. It seemed that lucidity brought about his usually keen focus. John saw this as transference; he would focus on something other than his own situation. To Mycroft, his brother was scared and finding anything he could to avoid admitting so.

"In their fashion," Mycroft replied, humouring his brother.

"They'll ruin everything if they charge in there – it has to be precise and well timed. There are markings involved. It has to be precise!" he specified, hands wildly dancing.

"Sherlock-," John silenced the Detective with the tone of his voice, "I know what you're doing and you should stop. No matter how much you try and fight, it isn't going to go away. Talk about it, talk about it to me or to Mycroft; God, just open your mouth and be honest with us. You're acting as though you've broken your leg and are going to be dancing again in a few months." John's exasperation came out loudly. "Tell me how you feel, what's going through your mind – tell me where your mind is at."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, resting back into the cushions a little more, becoming impossibly small.

"Why not?" John's mouth drew down, "Tell me how bad you feel; get angry! Shout, scream, swear, cry, or just…punch me! Just do something, react to this Sherlock. This is horrible, this is life-changing and you're just…" He exhaled, words failing him.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, teeth gritted as Mycroft eyed him. "I'm coping fine."

"You're faking." John spat.

"I'm coping!" Sherlock matched. "You want me to be weak and cry? Well I won't because I'm not weak! I am coping! This is transport!" he smashed his fists into the tops of his legs, his face reddening. "It's just a shell, it doesn't matter? Reacting in anyway but moving on isn't going to stop this happening, John." His fists hit harder and John didn't stop him – he needed to do this, this had to happen.

At the foot of the bed, Mycroft's stomach lurched and displayed in a vicious wince across his face. Emotion was hard to deal with and even harder to see exhibited on his little brother as Sherlock beat against himself until he arched his back aggressively, a groan deep in his chest bursting out through his open mouth, and flopped down against the pillow again, breathing raggedly which eventually turned into deep, infuriated sobs. John shot to his feet and reached out his hands to encase Sherlock's wrists but the Detective pulled away.

"Don't touch me," He snapped, his jaw stiffening in an attempt to calm. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his arm and sucked in his bottom lip tightly. John rested his hand on Sherlock's forearm, feeling his bristle, and smoothed his thumb and forth over the light dusting of dark-auburn hairs.

"See," John dared whisper and Sherlock's stormy eyes focused on him, wet and piercing. "I told you that you weren't fine, didn't I?" a small smile tugged the corner of his mouth and Sherlock's relaxation came in the form of him releasing his assaulted lip from between his tightly clamped teeth. "It's OK to be hurt and angry, Sherlock. I am! Everything's changed and it's shit. Don't pretend that it's not."

"But screaming and crying isn't going to change it, I need to be determined." Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Rest and acceptance is important, too." Mycroft's voice was a surprise to them both and was thick with emotion. "John's right, Sherlock – you need to grieve."

"For what?" He shook his head, curling his lip.

"For the way things were. Life is going to change, despite being confident or stubborn or focused on the future. Things are different, there are going to be difficulties; loads of things lie ahead that you're going to have to come to terms with and accept as the new norm. New ways of living, working, moving and just…being." John explained, "It's a huge loss and it is normal to grieve for that."

"But what's the point?" Sherlock shrugged, "Why mourn the changes in life? Life changes all the time, for everybody. It's just a body."

"No," John shook his head, "No it's not just a body, Sherlock. It's your body, your shell, your transport. And now it's different, it's not working the same anymore – everything has changed. And it's human to be hurt by that. You were hurt by somebody for no reason and to such an extent that you'll never be the same. I'm not saying you need to sit here and sob and let go, I'm just saying you need to let out your feelings and accept things, not just gloss over. That's the point, Sherlock." He sighed and looked at him deeply; the younger man's face slowly began to soften. "And at the risk of making your brother vomit, certain aspects of our relationship will change, too. It's OK, it's normal to be sad for that." His eyebrows rose up a moment as dawning spread across Sherlock's features.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said softly.

Shaking his head, John licked his lips, "Sorry for what?"

"Changing," he whispered.

"Oh, Sherlock," John locked his hands in the Detective's, "You have no reason to be sorry. What you've got to be, though, is realistic. This is going to be hard and you're going to feel different emotions. I need to know that you accept that, that you trust me enough to tell me when you're feeling hurt or angry and let me try to help?"

Watching them carefully, Mycroft took a deep breath in. He had never imagined that Sherlock, in all of his life, would ever be capable of loving somebody. Then again, he didn't bank on Sherlock ever meeting John Watson who, in his own unique way, was different to the rest of the world as much as Sherlock was. It wasn't just about sex – Mycroft had it on good authority that, for his brother, it wasn't about sex at all – it wasn't about being gay or being in a relationship in the conventional sense; Mycroft knew that for John and Sherlock it was about finding somebody who fit into the spaces in their lives as perfectly as if they were two pieces of the same puzzle. John was right for Sherlock in many ways and his ability to convince Sherlock that being human, at least sometimes, wasn't a crime was just one of the many brilliant things he brought to the young man's life. Mycroft trusted John with his delicate brother – the brother who'd never been socially acceptable but always, always been brilliant – and for him to feel that level of comfort with John was a task in itself.

* * *

**Whilst I have gone through this TWICE, I am confident something will come up, grammar or spelling wise, that is inaccurate. Please forgive me!**

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

The day filtered on and night fell swiftly across the hospital, making it quiet and dimly lit. The atmosphere felt somewhat different than the night before and John assumed it was because he was cloaked by les worry; in the space of twelve hours he'd seen Sherlock change from a sobbing child he'd emerged from his operation as to an almost perfect replica of himself. There were still kinks to iron out, he was still snappier than usual – if that was possible – and sighed a lot, but he was doing OK and John was doing OK too. Seeing a little more activity and colour in Sherlock made him feel that maybe, just maybe, they had enough fight between them to get through this and arrive on the other side in one piece.

Mycroft had left after Sherlock had been handed a cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice by an orderly. He'd taken in with a forced smile and picked at the bread but had downed the juice, his throat in need of wetting from a day spent crying and vomiting. Mycroft had leaned over the bed and kissed Sherlock's head, walking away without a word and a tea in his eye. John pretended not to see and Sherlock pretended not to feel emotional to know that his brother loved him. But they both saw it, they were both fully aware and Mycroft knew it. The Ice Man he may be, but his brother was his brother and that was something nobody could interfere with, not even gunmen and certainly not spinal cord injuries.

John watched Sherlock fight the effects of his next round of pain killers for twenty minutes before giving in, falling deeply asleep on the bed, now lowered back and all supports removed, giving him a flat, comfortable posture, his lips bobbing softly as he sucked against his tongue contentedly, his body and mind relaxed with the aid of medication, but relaxed nonetheless. John watched him, endeared by the occasional twitches in his hands and wrinkling up of his nose, the soft sounds that escaped his mouth and tiny turns of his head as he dreamed. He watched until his eyes grew heavy and his limbs relaxed and, finally, just before midnight, he fell into an exhausted sleep, his entire being emotionally drained, his feet hooked under Sherlock's bed and stretched across the frame, his right hand acting as a pillow for his chin as his body sunk into the high-backed, soft-seated chair right beside Sherlock.

So deep was his sleep that it took a moment for the noises around him to waken him, penetrating slowly into his sleep-addled mind; a small, slushy whisper of his name. His eyes opened slowly and his hips arched up in a stretch as he came into wakefulness, his eyes landing on Sherlock's wide, grey-eyed stare focused on him with unblinking lashes. "Sherlock?" John's voice croaked as he stretched out his back.

"I woke up and couldn't fall asleep again." Sherlock's whisper was husky and low and John could hear the fogginess in his voice that came when his mind worked overdrive. "I'm not comfortable."

"Are you cold?" John sobered, realising Sherlock would need his assistance in finding better comfort. "Want another pillow?" he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, "I could ask the Nurses." Sherlock shook his head.

"Lie with me," He asked, embarrassed of his want. His need. "Please?"

Pulling the chair closer to the bed, John checked behind him before he lowered the bar and then shuffled even further forwards, arching his back over to lie, somewhat uncomfortably, with his head against Sherlock's pillow, right beside the Detective's face.

"I meant up here." The bridge of Sherlock's nose crinkled.

"If I do that, they'll kick me out." John reasoned, "And if I catch your drain or the catheter, it could get messy." He grimaced comically, drawing a smirk to Sherlock's tired face. "But I promise, as soon as we're home I will lie right beside you for as long as you need me to." His face was so close to Sherlock's that they shared the same air. "Are you scared?" he asked carefully.

Slowly, Sherlock nodded, "A bit," he admitted, carefully.

"What scares you most?" John asked, seizing his opportunity to probe Sherlock's mind whilst he was pliant. Sherlock's shoulder twitched a little in a shrug. "OK, what things are scaring you at all?"

"Change," Sherlock's tongue darted across his lips. "That I'll be treated differently, that my body being different will change everything else." His eyes flicked across John's face, feline orbs searching for something.

"It will be different, for a while at least." John said, honestly. "People are going to be different – nobody knows how to treat people when they come in a different package to them, it can be a bit strange initially. Look at you and Sally Donovan, or Anderson." John reasoned, "People ridicule what they don't understand and so, until you make it clear that your only difference is that your legs don't work, people will be different. But it'll pass."

Sherlock swallowed, the bob of his Adam's apple drawing John's eyes to this throat before they returning to his mouth. "I don't want to leave Baker Street. It took me months of searching to find that place and…Mrs Hudson," he sighed and blinked twice, rapidly. "I'm in pain." Sherlock's brow creased.

"Where?" John asked, softly. "Your head?"

"No, here-," he reached down and placed his hand squarely against his chest, right over his heart. "It sort of feels like I'm going over a hill in the car; it's like a sinking feeling."

John's face wrinkled in sadness but he held it together well. He shuffled further forwards and reached out one hand, cupping it over Sherlock's cheek and turned his face back to him before placing his lips softly against Sherlock's. He held the touch for a moment before sitting back completely in the seat, working the kink from his back.

"Are you still going to kiss me like that when I'm half your height?" Sherlock asked with a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

"Maybe," John nodded. "I could get you back for every reference you've ever made toward me being short. We can't all be lanky planks like you." He wiggled his brows, despite the lump in his throat, and smiled. "You know, Mycroft's insistent on getting you the best of everything you need to live as normally as before." He crossed his ankles, "Just because your legs aren't working, doesn't mean you can't continue with most of what you were doing before. Supports can help you stand once you work up your back and core strength," John listed and Sherlock's eyes brightened immediately. "Oh yeah," John nodded, "You can get frames that will support you all round, kind of tighten around your hips and back to keep you supported and allow you to stand upright. Mycroft's actually insistent on those." He smirked.

"I need to know I can carry on with everything, though. Everything!" his eyes widened at John. "I want to be able to keep working for Lestrade, for Mycroft even. I don't want it to stop; I couldn't handle it if it all had to stop. I know moving around in a wheelchair is going to be a huge difference but I want to be who I was." He pushed one hand through his hair and lifted his head, lying back on his upturned palm, his fingers knotting in his curls the way he pretended he didn't like. "I feel like a child." He said suddenly after a silence. "That nurse, Emma," he said, looking at John with a tug to his lips, "She stripped me down and washed and dressed me. It was humiliating; I don't want to live like that!"

"You won't be." John insisted, "Your personal care will be just that – personal!" he sat forward again, resting his arms on the bed. "It'll take a bit of getting used to but you'll learn to read your body, learn to know when you've had enough activity or when you need more, learn to read your needs." He licked his lips, "It's a bit delicate, I know, but you'll learn to take control of your toileting. If you need to…go…" he gestured his hand, every inch the unprofessional and then sighed, "You're catheterised now so it's hard to really know, but if the sensations are there, if you can feel pressure in your bladder, you'll know when you need to catheterise yourself and it'll be fine. You'll do fine. All fine." He blundered. Sherlock grinned at his awkwardness. "And there are suppositories and pads for…everything else." he added. "Once you build up your strength and are sitting stronger, you'll be able to dress yourself with no problems. It'll take effort and determination and probably angry tears at the start, Sherlock, but it will get easier. It'll become normal."

Sherlock's cheeks pulled into a well-meaning but forced half-smile and John sighed, shuffling closer.

"Is that what you're scared of?" he asked "Being human in front of me? In front of others?" he fixed his eyes firmly on Sherlock's.

"Sort of, I suppose. I've always been able to ignore the shell and use my mind and now I'm going to have to be focusing some of my mind on my body and it's all different." He shrugged, "I don't want to fail."

"Fail at what?" John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, you're a fool, you know that? For all that you're smart, you're bloody stupid." He swatted the Detective's arm. "You can't fail at this. You're going to be fine; you're Sherlock Holmes for Christ's sake! You can do anything."

"Except come unscathed from a bullet in the back," Sherlock said, eyebrows suitably raised and voice sarcastic. "Two, in fact."

"This could have been so much worse." John said sternly, "I know that it doesn't feel like that because it's so raw, but it could have been infinitely worse. You could have died; there could have been enormous amounts of internal damage. But Sherlock nothing like that happened – your stomach, kidneys, liver, bladder – nothing was touched by a single bullet. It's not naïve to consider that in some respects you got off lightly." John was doing his best to rationalise what, at the moment, was completely irrational.

Sherlock huffed out a breath and drew his arm from behind his head, touching John's a moment before letting his hand rest lazily on his tummy, "I'm sorry," He whispered.

"You have no reasons at all to be sorry, Sherlock." John shook his head, a frown drawing his brows in sympathetically.

"Let me finish," Sherlock shook his head, his hair rustling against the pillow. "I'm sorry for taking away part of us." He said and scowled as John went to cut in again. "I don't want this to be over – us. I need you. I l…I love you and I need to know that you're going to stay. Because, if you can't, then you need to tell me now and I won't – I won't hold it against you. You're a physical person, John and if you don't think you can stay then-,"

"Stop it," John cut in sharply, "I am not leaving you because sex is going to be different, or intermittent or non-existent. I didn't fall in love with you for the sex, Sherlock. Stop it, stop this-," he waved his hands and rose to his feet, though he didn't know where he was going. "Pity doesn't suit you." He snapped.

"I'm not – I just want you to know that I wouldn't be angry with you if you decided that this isn't something you can do."

"I'm insulted," John turned back to Sherlock, "Mostly that you'd think I'm that fickle and that sex with you was that great that it defined our relationship. It's never been what we are, Sherlock – sex has never been the staple of our…union." A heavy silence fell and they stared at one another. Sherlock broke the tension with a snuffle before erupting into full, deep laughter that confused John to the point of despair; Sherlock was hysterical and he didn't know why. "What?" John frowned, "Sherlock what?"

Taking a deep breath, his hand on his contracting tummy, Sherlock exhaled through pursed lips and calmed himself slowly, a smirk lingering on his full lips. "God-," he sighed out, "And you said you're insulted!" he smiled again, "Sex with me wasn't that great?" He bit his lip as John's cheeks pinked.

"Oh, I didn't mean…"

"I know," Sherlock sobered, "I know what you meant and you know what I meant, too. I wasn't – I wouldn't blame you if you decided to cut your losses, I wasn't asking you to go I was just giving you the option."

"Please stop it," John edged closer to the bed again and returned to his seat, "You've been on drugs, you're exhausted, in shock, you've probably got concussion – if you were of sound mind you'd know that the words that just came out of your mouth are ridiculous."

"So is walking to a crime scene and waking up the next day paralysed." Sherlock snipped.

"So is being too cynical for your own good." John's response came with an equally sharp tongue. "Don't start feeling sorry for yourself and don't pretend that this isn't a bad thing – accept that it's awful and fight for something normal. And don't assume that I'm running off with the next person to walk by, because more than likely it'll be a nurse or your brother. Or Lestrade and none of them are the kind of thing I'm into." He added humour again but the seriousness was conveyed. "I'm not leaving you because something has changed, not now and not ten years down the line, Sherlock. I'm here for every step and stumble," he prodded Sherlock's tummy, "And I'll be here if you decide to return to work or that you don't want to; I'm here to support and love you, to listen even if it's only to listen to you shout and scream because you're frustrated and tired. I'm sticking around and I know right now it sounds like some corny line out of Love Actually or something, but I mean it; I love you Sherlock."

"I love you." Sherlock spoke the words on full lips more easily than ever before; they tumbled without stammer or hesitation, without falter or stumble and they warmed John's heart and instilled faith – hope – deep inside that no matter what came next they could tackle it together.

* * *

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11

John woke early but refreshed the following morning to the sounds of the working hospital. Sherlock was still sleeping, both arms raised above his head on the pillow, fingers slack in loose fists, flat on his back like an infant with a look of relaxed pleasure across his sleep-softened face. John couldn't help but smile and just managed to resist reaching out to touch his fingers to the Detective's rosy cheeks. He rose quietly from the chair and stretched his back out with a quiet yawn. Fishing through the bag Greg had left, he found out his clothes and wash bag and snuck quietly from the room with his phone, smiling politely at those he passed as he made his way to the bathroom and locked the door quickly.

He checked the time – seven-twenty-five am – and numerous messages on his phone as well as two missed calls. The most recent of the texts messages was from Lestrade. Placing his bag and clothes onto the lip of the sink, he opened the text.

**How's the patient? Nothing new overnight here but then I suppose you knew that. Donovan has the bit between her teeth for this case, not sure if that's good or bad. Keep me up to date, yeah? – Greg.**

He tapped out a quick message of thanks in rely, letting Lestrade know that Sherlock had 'perked up' over the course of the evening and then set about quickly washing and changing. It wasn't the most private of facilities but once he was changed and shaved he felt close to human again. He folded his warn clothes and carried them back with him, tucking them inside the pocket of the bag so that they weren't mingled in with the clean clothes and paced quietly around the small room, eyes constantly drawing back to Sherlock in his infinitely relaxed state. It was rare to see him this way, John reminded himself, and so he intended on savouring it. Sherlock favoured staying awake and occupying his mind over forcing it to shut down and sleep; it wasn't that he didn't like sleep, he did, but insomnia and an over-active mind that dwelled on the things it needn't often led to nights on end of sitting straight-backed on his chair or hunched over an experiment in the kitchen.

Pushing his hands into the pockets of his clean jean, feeling less formal now that the checked shirt he'd been wearing had been replaced for a thin, long-sleeved t-shirt, John tilted his head and watched Sherlock's brow creasing as his chest rose up in a stretch, his body and mind slowly coming into wakefulness. They had stayed awake into the early hours after Sherlock had woken in the night and then John had watched Sherlock slowly fall back to sleep, mostly down to the drugs still in his system, but John somehow didn't feel tired now for the lack of rest. The minimal sleep had been a welcomed rest but the chance to have talked to Sherlock, to see him open up the way he had, had been cathartic for them both in its own manner. John shuffled closer to the bed as Sherlock's arms stretched up and his jaw dragged down in a yawn, his long fingers twining through his curls as his body jarred to tense every muscle, a small groan leaving his throat at how good it felt.

"Morning," John gave a wide, closed-lipped smile that pushed up his cheeks beneath his eyes.

Groaning again as his body relaxed, Sherlock returned the sentiment, dropping his arms to his side, "Morning," he yawned again. John leaned down quickly to kiss against the sympathetic-looking wrinkles on Sherlock's warm forehead.

"Ugh," John wrinkled his nose, "You need to brush your teeth."

"You need to-," Sherlock began, voice husky from sleep, "I can't think of anything," He smiled, sleepily. "I'm hungry."

John smiled, "That's good." He perched against the side of the bed, "The nurses should be around soon, and the doctor, so I'm sure they'll sort breakfast for you then." John folded his arms across his chest. "You sleep like a child," He muttered and raised his arms up, holding them beside his head in a mock of Sherlock. "A soother between your teeth wouldn't have looked out of place; you suck your tongue a bit anyway, I'm sure it'd be welcomed." He chuckled.

The quip failed to settle with Sherlock and his eyes disappeared into a thick-browed frown, "You limped around for God knows how long without actually having anything wrong with your leg and yet you mock me for sleeping in the only way I could find comfort," He snapped and John held out his hands quickly in defence.

"Whoa!" his eyes darkened, "I was teasing, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it, I was just kidding." Hi hands lowered slowly, "I'm sorry," he said again, genuinely, but Sherlock's face stayed set in a firm pout.

Today clearly stood to be less pleasant than the previous night – it was going to be one of pitiful anger and aggression toward everyone, John could tell, as – feeling a little stronger – Sherlock would begin to realise where his new limits lay. John knew he was fully entitled to this, to react so sharply, but he wasn't looking forward to it one bit. Sherlock's temper could be demonic at the best of times and John knew that with such a reason as this behind it, it didn't bode well for the coming hours.

Sherlock ignored John completely as a male nurse entered with a broad smile, "Mr Holmes, how are you feeling this morning?" he asked with a courteous smile. Wordlessly, Sherlock glared at him. "Not very talkative then, that's alright."

"Ignore him," John cut in, a stickler for manners his entire life, "He's a moody git by default but today he has decided he's going to surpass himself." His tone dripped sarcasm and the nurse, though he said nothing, clearly picked up on the tension.

"How is the pain in your head today, any better?" he pressed on chirpily and a silent, tight-lipped nod shuffled Sherlock's head by way of response. "Good, that's good. How do you feel about breakfast? We have cereals, fruit, toast – unless you have specific dietary requirements, in which case we'll do our best to meet what you need." He smiled widely with dark, happy eyes.

"Nothing," Sherlock's voice found its way, somehow, through clenched teeth.

"You should try to eat something, Mr Holmes, even if it's just a slice of toast, or some fresh fruit." The nurse coaxed hopefully whilst John stood back, eyes fixed on Sherlock, looking lost somewhere between anger and acceptance. "Please?"

"I said no!" Sherlock snapped, snatching back his hand from the nurse whose gloved fingers were gingerly prodding at the cannula. "Don't touch me." His tongue was sharp and venomous. Stiffening his shoulders, the nurse simply turned and walked away, resigned to the cantankerous behaviour and resolved not to push it.

"You were hungry a minute ago," John said, sarcasm and annoyance high, fidgeting with the blanket at the end of the bed.

"Now I'm not." Sherlock's tone was petulant as he folded his arms across his chest indignantly. "I don't want his pity."

"That wasn't pity, Sherlock, it was duty of care. He's a nurse!" John sighed, exasperated by this already. He knew he shouldn't be because Sherlock was just lashing out, transferring his emotions, but John was finding it too hard to carry his own grievances as well as Sherlock's. "You told me not five minutes ago you were hungry, yet when a member of staff come sin you all but slap them in the face out of sheer petulance because I teased you."

"He poked me!" Sherlock threw out his arms, hitting against the side of his bed.

"He's a nurse! Nurses poke people, Sherlock, it's their job." John's voice rose as his arms did in exasperation. They were stuck in a childish argument, built up out of their frustrations of a very adult situation. "I know it's brewing Sherlock – you're angry and want to get upset, so stop pretending and just do it."

"You don't get it, John." Sherlock growled, "You don't get it because it is not you sitting here. It's me. You don't get it at all. I'm the cripple, I'm the fu…" he closed his eyes, close to tears, and gritted his teeth. "Go away," he whispered finally, not bothering to open his eyes. "Go away, John. Anywhere you want, just get out – just go, leave me alone." His head shuffled against the pillows and lulled to the side. "Go!" his voice rose. When at last his eyes did flicker open, John wasn't in his line of vision. He'd done as he'd asked, he'd left him alone, and the emptiness was all-encompassing; all he wanted was for John to come back.

He wanted to curl up in to a tiny ball like he did on the sofa at home, but his body wouldn't listen to his commands. He wanted to lie in a protective cocoon but nothing would happen and nothing would react; nothing would bloody listen! With hands bracing the bars beside him, trapping him in the cot, Sherlock pulled himself to sitting; his arms shook with the weight and effort, his knuckles whitened at the attempt to pull him upright and he felt sickeningly dizzy at the sudden height his head and shoulders had gained. He breathed huffily through his nose, bearing down on his arms, and willed his lower back to listen as he fought against his body to pull his hips up and back a little further down the flattened mattress, shuffling his body up a centimetre at the most.

With heavy breaths, he gave in to the weight and effort, relieving the pressure from his arms, and clattered his body back down against the bed, rattling the framework, with a guttural moan. His breaths came quicker as, a moment later, he gained purchase on the bars again and forced all his weight onto his hands again, trying to shuffle up the bed a little more, succeeding in only lifting his hips from the bed slightly whilst his legs lay limp and unresponsive, adding a downward weight and making his attempts all the more difficult.

His arms refused to hold the effort any longer, aching painfully, and gave out sending him back as his bum glittered against the mattress again, rocking the bed viciously. Exhausted, Sherlock tried to keep his aching back straight against the fatigue that claimed his shoulders and abdominal muscles but the pain was growing. With ragged breaths turning to tears, he tried to placate himself but found his erratic intakes of breath made it impossible. Sobbing, he called out for John.

"J-Jo-John," his tongue smudged against the top of his mouth in exhaustion. He needed to lie down, feeling dizzy and sick, hot and overwhelmed; feeling humiliated and feeble. His shoulders and back pained impossibly, not used to bearing his entire weight. Here, he realised through his tears, was where the learning began. "John!" he called out louder, teeth gritted.

The footsteps that approached were familiar but not John's and, as Sherlock looked up from his lap with watering eyes and his face red from exertion, his eyes fell on his older brother. Mycroft looked unseasonably different to the man he'd been in recent years, suited and well turned out. His blazer had been swapped for a round-neck jumper that sat over a shirt without a tie. His coat was over his arm but quickly abandoned into the chair beside the door. His shoes were noisy against the floor as he moved with haste to the bed.

"I-I…I can't…do it…" Sherlock's sobs were hideous. Dirty, loud, heavy and deep and as Mycroft's arm silently encased him, holding Sherlock's upper body against his own chest as he leaned over the bar of the bed, Sherlock inhaled deeply against the scent of his childhood and tried to grab roots on it, trying to ground himself, to stop his mind from spinning out of control, "I can't do it M-Mycroft."

Mycroft stayed silent, one hand behind Sherlock's back, the other reaching under the ruffled blankets to hook beneath his brother's limp legs. The crooks of Sherlock's knees were sweat-dampened and hot from his efforts. Almost cradling him, Mycroft shuffled Sherlock's body down and laid him flat against the mattress. He was clinical in his silence but loving in his touch as he ensured the tubes that graced Sherlock's legs were not disturbed as he pulled the blankets taught and neat before covering Sherlock to his hips. The younger Holmes' sobs calmed considerably, emanating as nothing more than deep, rumbling shudders in his tummy as Mycroft found the controls to lift the head of Sherlock's bed enough to sit him up whilst keeping his aching back supported.

As the bed glided smoothly into a sitting position, Mycroft hung the controls back on their convenient hook and lowered himself into the chair that had been John's bed the night before. Swallowing against his raw throat, Sherlock rubbed his wrist into his nose to clear it of his anguish and rested his head firm against the mattress, turning it to face Mycroft. "I just wanted to sit up." Mycroft remained silent, one leg crossed over the other and his hands steepled in an imitation of one of Sherlock's favoured positions, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. "I feel pathetic." Sherlock shuddered on a tearless sob, "I just wanted to sit up," he tutted, rolling his head straight to stare at the wall ahead.

"Where is Doctor Watson?" Mycroft's voice was neither cold nor overly sentimental. This, Sherlock determined in an instant, was going to be Mycroft's way; keep calm and carry on, fix brother when brother sobs then pretended as though sobbing brother hadn't occurred.

"I don't know," Sherlock's jaw jutted stiffly.

Mycroft smirked from the right side of his mouth and lowered his hands, his elbows slipping out as he clasped his fingers in his lap, "Sent him away, then?"

"He's surplus."

"Surplus, really?" Mycroft resisted another smirk.

"No," Sherlock sighed, lulling his head back to look at his brother, his eyes wide and his cheeks glowing red like a teething toddler. He looked impossibly small, even compared to yesterday; so very small and very scared. "Of course not, I just snapped."

"He knows better than to argue with you, though; he's learning. Maybe one day he'll actually learn that with you, dear brother, that no actually means yes." Mycroft reached up with one hand, scratching the side of his nose.

"No," Sherlock challenged, "I say what I mean – I told him to go, to leave me alone and he did."

"And now you feel abandoned. You tried, the moment he left, to do something you know you are incapable of." Mycroft's voice was full of provocation and Sherlock glared at him. "Your legs are broken, brother, not your mouth. Answer me back, tell me to go." He challenged.

"No." Sherlock sighed angrily, "No, I don't – I don't want to be on my own, I don't like being here."

"And yet," Mycroft sighed nasally, "You sent away the one person who is willing to be here throughout everything, all out of temper. Dear me, Sherlock. Dear me," His usual manner with Sherlock was restored in a simple scathing look from Sherlock's icy eyes. "Have you spoken with a Doctor today?" Mycroft asked, he was aware that the hour was still early – barely even nine am – but it was a topic of conversation to ebb the silence.

Sherlock shook his head and sniffed up.

"Have you lost the ability to speak correctly in the same manner as your legs?" Mycroft realised he sounded callous to the outside, but to Sherlock he was simply honest. The boys had grown up this way; if it was true, it shouldn't hurt.

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock sighed, "The doctor was not been around to talk to me today, though I'm sure he'd talk at me then talk with John rather than actually treat me like an adult." Sherlock gave a deep sigh, toying with his hands in his lap. "Don't tell John," he said, without looking across at Mycroft.

"About what?" the older man's brows lifted up his hands arched again beneath his chin.

Blinking once and very slowly, Sherlock licked his lips. "Thank you."

* * *

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	12. Chapter 12

The brothers fell into a perfect silence. Mycroft's foot tapped the minutes in the air and Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, his cheeks still a little red and eyes still a little glossy with the tears he'd been forced to stem on Mycroft's arrival. Mycroft didn't do tears, he never had. It was like this that John found them, ten minutes tapped by Mycroft's foot later, when he returned to the room smelling of fresh air with cheeks pinked from the cool, winter air that was blowing a light wind beyond the walls of the hospital where life was still somewhere close to normal.

"Oh," he stumbled to a stop, realising Mycroft's presence by the back of his head being just visible over the chair. "Mycroft, hi,"

"Good morning, John." Mycroft rose to his feet and graciously shook John's hand. The surprise at Mycroft's appearance was evident on John's face. "I trust that some fresh air did you good?"

"Yes," John nodded, slowly walking to the chair in the corner of the room. He shuffled it closer toward the bottom of the left side of Sherlock's bed. "It cleared the cobwebs a little." He smiled.

"Good," Mycroft smiled, mostly sincerely though it touched on sarcastic. "That's good."

"I spoke to Greg Lestrade, actually," John stated, trying to make himself feel a bit more comfortable in the seat as both sets of sharp, Holmesian eyes settled on him. "Just called him whilst I was loitering outside, just to see if there was y'know…anything new,"

"There won't be." Sherlock said; his head lulled to the side again but this time to face John rather than his brother.

"No," John sighed, somewhat sadly. "No, there isn't but he sends his best wishes."

"I'm sure he does. Did he film me on his phone or just take pictures to post around the office? I bet he loved it, I bet that Sally was in hysterics as the bullets hit." Sherlock scathed, hands twisting in his lap.

"No, Sherlock." John tutted, "Both of them aren't exactly my favourite people, but they're doing their best on this case. They were sincere when they came here yesterday, asking how you were. They're both offering up their time." He held out his hands, offering the metaphorical gauntlet to Sherlock.

"What name do they have on the case then? Who Shot the Freak?" he reeled off bad-temperedly. "Freak's Gunman? I bet there's a reward for the person who owns up."

"You're being ridiculous." John sighed, knowing he had to ignore the harshness.

"No, you're being ridiculous." Sherlock snapped back, "We didn't even know who was involved in the crime we were investigating in the first place therefore the likelihood of actually knowing whom the gunman is or being able to track them is slim to none. Use your head, John, for God sakes." Sherlock lifted his head forwards before slamming it back onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. "Oh, God – I'm going insane! Get me out of here!"

John reached out his hand gently, touching Sherlock's ankle and smoothed his thumb lovingly before he realised what he was doing. His fingers stilled, Sherlock's eyes watching the digit and then rolled up to look at John. Looking mortified, John snapped back his hand and took a deep breath. Somewhere in him, Sherlock found humility.

"Bit higher," he mumbled softly, "Think hips, not ankles and then I'll be able to tell you that it's nice when you touch me." John looked up at him, tears threatening, and dragged his lips into a wet smile and Sherlock's expression matched perfectly. In silence, they told one another that it was OK; no matter how much they snapped and jibed or made mistakes, it was all going to be OK. It wasn't, not for a while, but believing it was better than nothing.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before Doctor Webber made an appearance. Mycroft stayed silent about the state in which he'd found his brother earlier that morning, even as Sherlock insisted to the doctor that he was feeling fine, strong and really didn't need to be here at all. Thankfully for Sherlock, the doctor seemed to agree. The drain in Sherlock's thigh was removed and the wound closed with a couple of stiches before being dressed. The procedure had fascinated the small boy – and scientific adult – in Sherlock as he watched, feeling neither pain nor tug, as needles and thread were dragged through his slim thigh, closing over the incision. He was going to have a scar there, and a sizable but neat one, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Once they had him washed, changed and comfortable, Sherlock was moved to a more permanent and somewhat busier area of the hospital. He was given as much privacy as possible, placed in a room with two other occupants and the ability to draw the curtains around, but the closeness of others had set his mood back to bitchy and emotional. All the while, Mycroft remained vigilant over his brother. He excused John for coffee, to make calls or take breaks, and 'Sherlock sat' by himself. John's times away from Sherlock were always brief and as much as an emotionally irritated and exhausted Sherlock loved to see him leave, he felt so much better when he came back.

Mycroft stayed into the night, tired but never showing it, watching as his brother fought the effects of drugs and his body's exhaustion to the very last, only giving into sleep after an hour of refusing he was even remotely tired. And still Mycroft stayed, watching the time slip from one day to the next. He talked with John in hushed whispers about the things he'd found on the internet that might be of use to Sherlock, of the benefits of hydrotherapy and of anything that came into his mind that would stop him from telling John the one thing he knew the Doctor deserved to know. And he almost made it, he almost managed not to break Sherlock's promise, but he couldn't keep it from John much longer. Glancing at Sherlock's sleeping form; he licked his lips in plebeian manner and crossed his legs the opposite way, facing John across the bed where their chairs were positioned, a mirror image on each side of the bed. "He was quite upset when I arrived this morning," he broke what had become a peaceful, sleep-hushed silence.

John's eyes scanned Mycroft's face in the dim light of the lamp attached to the wall, turned on but away from their faces, illuminating them enough to without overpowering the darkness. "We had words a bit. Sort of," he admitted numbly.

"He was upset with himself." Mycroft clarified. "As I stepped into the room, he was sitting up, gripping the bars pulled up at the bedside, crying like a small child. He was crying because he couldn't move himself – he had manoeuvred his back straight and yet, whatever else he had endeavoured to do, he couldn't and he sobbed. Not just tears of sadness but big sobs of frustration, just like a child. He is frightened and frustrated, John and he doesn't know how to deal with those emotions. He is not accustomed to them. He is independent and self-sufficient and now all of that is changing and it is frightening him."

John's face stretched down in horror, in guilt and he rubbed his hands against his temples, "I shouldn't have left."

"On the contrary, you should. It is right that you did. It pushed him to realise that he has limitations, it brought home in actions what the words mean." Mycroft gave something by way of consolation.

"Was he OK with the nurses, when they're busy they can be a little less pliant to his mood I just hope they were mindful of him." John asked.

"There were no nurses, only Sherlock and I." Mycroft held out both hands, elbows on the armrests of the chair. "I touched my brother in a way I haven't since he was small. I wrapped my arms around his back and knees and I laid him into bed the way I used to when we were children. He was tormented by insomnia as a child, much as he is now," Mycroft's face softened with nostalgia. "He'd pace and stomp about, tugging at his hair, driven mad by the noise in is head and then, usually an hour or so before sunrise, he would flop to the floor as though he were going to convulse or fall gracefully to my bed with a groan and just sleep – he would just fall so suddenly and deeply asleep." He breathed out heavily through his nose. "I see the same, confused vulnerability in his now, John and I need to know that you are going to stay with him – by all means take a breath but please commit to him. Don't take his verbal attacks to heart and don't leave him. I don't think he has the ability to do this without you."

"I'm not leaving him." John's voice stuck; his throat raw with emotion. "I'm not. I won't."

Without another word, Mycroft got to his feet and pulled his coat up from where it was thrown over the back of the chair and slipped it on. He nodded a goodbye at John, remaining silent, and glanced on Sherlock's sleeping form before he turned and walked quietly away, his shoes barely clipping against the floor. John watched him disappear out of the room, following him with his eyes. Rubbing his face with both hands as he disappeared from view completely, John let out a sigh. Mycroft was finally showing how rattled he was by this and it only made John even more determined to be strong for Sherlock.

From there, the week seemed to merge into itself; Sherlock would have periods of rollercoaster emotions, feeling strong and able one moment before crashing into a dip of anger and frustration the next. He hated the ward and then preferred it; he felt exposed in the gowns up restricted in his pyjamas; he hated the staff and then they were tolerable. At one point, he hated John but it lasted mere seconds before he was demanding assistance to move from the bed to the chair at the bedside. The nurses, though usually insistent upon being there to assist with such tasks, were just glad to see Sherlock do something that they allowed John to take the lead, watching at a distance just in case. And John, God love him, took it all in his stride. He watched Sherlock go from strength to strength both mentally and physically, working painfully hard to keep his back straight, even as it began to ache deeply, doing all he could to minimise the amount of time he'd be kept in hospital.

John was proud of him, but he didn't say for fear that Sherlock would snap him in two for being patronising. But he saw a change in him quickly, a steely determination to be better and stronger, as did Lestrade when he visited, but Mycroft didn't come back again. Sherlock didn't mention it at all and John didn't bring it up with him, but the doctor had begun to wonder if Mycroft's resolve had cracked completely. It was when Wednesday arrived; marking Sherlock's full week in hospital, that Mycroft finally reappeared. Dressed once again in a full suit, he strolled into the ward at force with Lestrade and Donovan at his heel. John and Sherlock exchanged worried glances, their brows knitting together in frowns, as the three stood – the unlikely trio – at the foot of Sherlock's bed.

"What?" Sherlock's frown deepened, ignoring Sally's presence. "You've just stormed in here like the Mafia so it's clearly not something favourable." He added, catching Greg's expression. "So spit it out, I'm not a five-year-old."

"We've got a lead," Greg sighed, hands on his hips, pushing back his grey suit jacket. "It's nothing concrete but we're following it up. The flat in Northumberland Street was dusted; there haven't been squatters in there but they've found clear fingerprints by the door into the bathroom and the window that overlooked the street."

"That's good, isn't it?" John sat forwards in his chair, hands occupied with a pen and paper. He and Sherlock had been preparing a list – mostly out of boredom – of places they could look for suitable accommodation. It had been a strange conversation, consisting mostly of jokey responses to suggestions of 'moving Mrs Hudson with them' but it was mostly fruitless. "If it's at the window then that's – I mean, it could be whoever fired the shots."

"That's what we're thinking but so far there have been no matches in the database," Greg licked his lips, "So we know for certain that whoever's been in there isn't already a known criminal, not in the UK at least."

Sherlock's shoulders dropped, "That's narrowed it down then, hasn't it?" he shook his head slightly, resting back against the bed. He had managed, before then, a full hour sitting upright with only the support of a pillow against his lower back to push him up slightly and support his weight. It seemed as though all strength and determination drained form him with the small amount of hope being dangled in his face and then whipped away again by their not-so-bad-but-not-particularly-great news.

"We're not giving up." Sally pitched in, aiming her words at John with a firm but honest stare.

"Well we can rest assured then, can't we? Sally Donovan is on the case." Sherlock's face dripped with as much sarcasm as his tone.

"Sherlock," Mycroft groaned at his brother, eyes rolling.

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "Don't shush me. Why bother coming here with something as pointless and useless as that? What can I do with that information other than delete it the moment you leave? Oh we have a lead but actually we don't. And the only reason you're here is to gawp," he pointed at Sally.

"It's not like that, Sherlock, and you know it." Mycroft stepped forward one step.

"Do I?" he tilted his head, "She hates me. And, quite frankly, I'm not overly fond of her. So when you're quite finished lying to me and you've had enough of staring, you can turn around and leave the same way you entered."

"Sherlock," John reached out one hand, used the outbursts now but still always a little burned by them. He touched his hand against Sherlock's arm gently but was quickly shrugged away.

"Take a photograph if you like, bring it back to the Yard, I'm sure they'd all love it." Sherlock's jaw tightened.

"Whatever, Freak." Sally turned, eyes rolling, her heels clicking against the floor as she began to walk away, stopping only when Greg called out to her.

"Donovan." His voice was low and firm. "Look," he turned back to look at Sherlock, "We came to tell you because I thought you would like to know, to keep up with the case, to be informed. That is all; call it a gesture of good faith that we're doing what we can."

"Thanks, Greg," John spoke up as Sherlock's lips formed a pout. "I know it's not easy and it means a lot that you're doing this. He's grateful, we both are."

"I can talk for myself," Sherlock snapped into John's face, a deep wrinkle in the bridge of his nose creasing his entire face.

"Then do it, and politely, or I'll see about a cold water enema." John leaned back in the chair, the words delivered and received in jest, making colour rise in Greg and Sherlock's cheeks.

Sighing, Sherlock looked back up at Greg and, in a sickly voice, thanked him. "Th-thank you," He stumbled over the word slightly, ignoring the rise of Sally's eyebrows as she stood level with Lestrade again. Mycroft's aura radiated smugness.

Greg and Sally excused themselves almost immediately, but Mycroft lingered at the bedside. As the officers moved out of earshot, disappearing down the corridor, he lowered himself into the empty chair beside the head of the bed, the seat of which had been raised by a pressure cushion which immediately informed Mycroft that Sherlock had, at least for a while, been sitting there. He allowed himself a brief flutter of joy in his heart and stomach, but his face remained flat.

"Do you think you can start exercising your Governmental rights, yet?" Sherlock asked, his eyes were on John's pad of paper but the words were aimed at Mycroft. He looked up, a little sadness in his gaze but almost fully masked by annoyance and generally being fed up of being catered to. "I've had enough, I need to go home."

"Are you in a fit state?" Mycroft's tone was oily and rich. Normal.

Sherlock didn't reply but John, rather to Mycroft's surprise, seemed to be on the same page as Sherlock. "In fairness, he's not going to be any worse off if he does go home. They'll have him back most days for an hour or so of physio, he'll have urology appointments and occupational health will be in to ensure everything's in working order. It just – it depends on if," Sherlock blushed and Mycroft knew what it was that he didn't want to say. John had pride and accepting Mycroft's offer of help had, though it was welcomed and appreciated, served to dent that pride a little.

"There are two houses in central London, quite close to Baker Street and the surgery to allow you to continue to work," Mycroft looked at John, "Both of which have been previously lived in by disabled individuals and therefore had been made accessible. The first is a three storey house with a loft conversion; the basement and first floor have been amended for easy access, the upper floor and attic remain as normal. The other is a flat a little further across town but still central; it is a little older but it provides what is needed. I am assured both meet your specific needs and both are competitively priced." He explained, almost without taking a breath.

"How much?" John asked, "A month I mean, how much? I need to know that my wage is going to cover the rent."

"They're for purchase, Doctor Watson, not rental properties. All you and my brother need to do is give me the nod in the direction which you wish to go and I will take care of it." He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and Sherlock eyed him curiously.

"No, see when you said help – I didn't, I mean, I'm not expecting you to _buy_ us a house. I just-," John's words fumbled as his brain swam with gratitude and embarrassment in the same go.

"You're far from naïve, Doctor Watson. Sherlock and I are from a family who were never without what it was we needed at any given time." Mycroft began and John heard Sherlock draw in a breath. "There is a sum of money allocated for whichever property you choose. If you like, I can make the choice for you. It will be ready, your belongings moved in from Baker Street, whilst you both focus your attentions where they are needed more pressingly." He rose to his feet, "If I were you, I would take the house in the city. Yes?"

John and Sherlock met in a glance and all John could do was shrug, wordlessly giving Sherlock the casting vote. Looking up at his brother, his tongue darting across his pink lips, Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Consider it done, little brother." Mycroft gave a courteous nod, eyes down on Sherlock. "I'll see to it that all suitable equipment is also in the house and have the keys with you as soon as possible. The moment you are aware when you will be discharged, contact me; I will send car. Keep up the good work, Sherlock…" Mycroft threw over his shoulder as he walked away, his voice as silky and slick with sarcasm as ever yet completely genuine. He meant his words wholeheartedly.

In the silence that followed, John's mind rushed with the possibilities and changes that lay ahead. They were moving into a home they hadn't seen, one fully set up for Sherlock's new needs; they were leaving Baker Street; Sherlock was getting stronger by the hour and life was changing by the minute. It was a rollercoaster of fear and anxiety, excitement and amazement that made him nauseous and dizzy and utterly lost but uncertainly happy.

"I feel odd." He spoke up.

"Good kind of odd?" Sherlock asked, hands pushed firmly into the mattress as he hoisted himself up a little, straightening his back up. Instinctively, John read up to reposition the cushion that had been squished when he sat back and ensure it was stuffed down enough to boost Sherlock's back forwards and maintain support.

"I'm not sure," John replied on a sigh, eyes up to Sherlock. He placed down the notepad and pen and licked his lips, "We're leaving Baker Street." he said, unsure if it were a question or a statement.

"It's a bit…strange," Sherlock admitted, face contorting a little at the pulling pain between his shoulders as he fought to maintain his balance and straight back.

"Are you alright," John asked carefully, not wanting to coddle him but desperate to help.

Sherlock nodded, "I'm – it's," he searched for the words lost in his mind, "I just need to leave here, anywhere is better than here."

John nodded with a slow blink, understanding the sentiment. He'd barely been back to Baker Street since Sherlock had been admitted, merely nipping back for an hour at the most whilst Greg had stayed with Sherlock. He hadn't even seen Mrs Hudson but knew that every couple of days, she had been sending food via Greg to give to them. She'd miss them as much as they'd miss her.

"I want my normal life back," Sherlock sighed, "We need to try and form something normal out of this," he held his arms out a moment at his expanse and then slapped his fists into his thighs. He did that a lot, John and noted, especially when frustrated. He had a suspicion it was to test if he could feel it, knowing that Sherlock would spend the rest of his life wondering if the sensations would come back. "Work, normal life, sharing a bed," he quirked his mouth at John, "So what, it's not Baker Street? It's not here. If I don't get out, if I don't start getting normality, I'm going to rot." The openness of his words struck John deeply. "I need my life back."

John rose to his feet, his back curved as he leaned across the low bed to kiss Sherlock's temple, "I know, we'll get it, really soon." he let his hand linger on the back of Sherlock's head a moment, resting in his curls, before he straightened with a low groan at the protestations of his muscles. "I'm just nipping to the loo; I'll be back in a minute." Sherlock nodded and watched John walk with confidence from the ward, smiling as he passed staff and patients and disappeared out into the corridor with a sad sort of smile half-pulling at his full lips.

* * *

**Thank you once again for your patience. Sorry it's taken longer to get this chapter up, I was sick and didn't feel like concentrating much on it with all the proof-reading it takes, but here it is! We're getting there - I'm quicker at the moment with the rewriting so I HOPE (can't promise, but I HOPE) to have all of the rewriting done in the next two weeks and then I can begin posting the NEW chapters! **

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	13. Chapter 13

It all seemed to happen quickly from then; too quickly in some respects and not quickly enough in others. By Friday, mid-way through a second week in hospital, Sherlock was released and signed up to numerous outpatient clinics and programmes which would see him returning to the hospital for intense physio and counselling sessions that were designed not only to ensure he got the best care, but to break up the monotony of being home, giving him something to focus on and set goals toward. Sherlock was both enthralled by the idea of leaving and terrified. They still hadn't seen the new house, not even John on his own, and they were both excited about it whilst still battling the apprehensions they held about its suitability or whether they'd be OK on their own, without the back-up of nurses ensuring them that things were being done right. John had never felt more out of his depth caring for somebody who needed him as a Doctor, finding it hard to keep his medical mind rational above his loving feelings for Sherlock.

Sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed, now made but for the dents where they sat, John kept his arm around Sherlock's back by way of support, ensuring he offered enough but didn't overpower. He could make out the waistband of the incontinence pants beneath Sherlock's loose bottoms and it made his heart beat fast. It had been Sherlock's choice, his option for now at least – until he got to grips with other methods. Beside them sat their overnight bag and another filled with Sherlock's personal care supplies gearing them up for the first month at home before they accessed what they needed through the pharmacist. Sherlock's hospital issue wheelchair sat unfolded and ready at the foot of the bed, looming beside them. It was daunting and neither of them knew what to say, sitting side by side in perfect silence as they waited for Mycroft.

John's feet were firmly against the floor, his knees bouncing with nerves whilst Sherlock's knees lead sideways, his ankles together and twisted, numb and nursing his writhing hands on his thighs, long fingers twitching and twisting nervously. Reaching out his free hand, John closed his fingers around Sherlock's fidgeting appendages and looked him softly in the eyes when he eventually raised his head. "Nervous?" he asked in a low tone.

"No," Sherlock lied.

"Me too," John said through a breath that stretched his ribcage wide. "It's going to be fine, we're ready. _You're_ ready."

Sherlock breathed heavily twice before twisting his head uncomfortably to look over his shoulder, almost butting into John's forehead with the back of his skull, "Where's Mycroft, what's taking him so bloody long?"

"He'll be here – just relax." John said, calmly.

"Don't tell me to relax. I'm fine, OK? I'm fine." Sherlock's snap was born out of nervous, John knew, but it still stung a little. Had Sherlock truly been fine then John would have been able to move his arm from around his back and know that he had the confidence to trust his own strength to hold his back up straight, as it stood he didn't dare risk moving his arm at all, aware of how much Sherlock had leaned back to rest on him.

"OK," John replied simply, willing himself not to take things personally.

Timing as impeccable as ever, Mycroft turned into the ward at that point, walking purposefully toward his brother and John. His steps were quick but controlled and Sherlock threw his head over his shoulder to him as he came to a stop at the end of the bed. "Sherlock, John…" he spoke in a low voice. He was nervous too, Sherlock knew it instantly.

Putting his arm around Sherlock's waist, John turned awkwardly, removing the hand from around Sherlock's back, and greeted Mycroft with an even smile. "Afternoon," he said cheerfully, his cheeks pushing up.

"Are the papers dealt with?" Mycroft asked, "Signed out and everything in order."

"About an hour ago," John nodded, thankful for the sake of his neck when Mycroft came around the bed and he didn't have to strain to see him.

"Then you're ready to leave now, as is?" Mycroft asked bluntly, clinically, his hands encased in leather gloves indicating to John that the weather outside was less than favourable.

John nodded."The nurse will have to walk to the car with us; procedure. Kind of the same with new mothers and their babies; safety, I guess." John explained, moving his hand up to Sherlock's shoulder as he rose to his feet. He turned his attention to Sherlock, "Want to try this yourself or do you want my help?" He gestured with his free hand toward the wheelchair.

"I can do it." Sherlock's voice was small in sound but harsh in tone, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the mattress and grunted as he shuffled his body forwards slightly.

"Mycroft, could you…" John waved his hand, "Can…can you just push it over." He said, drinking in the awkwardness oozing from the elder Holmes. Nervously, Mycroft gripped the handles on the back of the chair, edging it toward John uneasily. "Thanks," the doctor smiled insincerely, his mind occupied on supporting Sherlock, and pulled the chair closer to the bed. He locked the brakes down over the large back wheels and then placed his hand on the armrest for extra stability, stopping it moving one inch. "There you go…" he said calmly and quietly to Sherlock, his mouth in line with his ear.

Sherlock inhaled heavily through his nose and bore all his weight on his arms as he moved across the bed a couple of inches. The action made his face hot, his cheeks flushing, his frustration building with tears in his eyes and an angry headache that tensed his temples. The effort was angering and tiring, his arms supporting him to move slowly across the mattress, dragging his unmoving legs.

"That's it…" John coaxed carefully, "Just reach over, take hold of the armrest," Taking another shaky breath, Sherlock reached out a trembling hand, fearful of his balance, and hooked his fingers quickly around the padded bar. He let out a steady puff of air at the achievement. "That's it," John smiled, eyes misty, "You're doing fine."

"I'm not a baby!" Sherlock snapped; face and neck reddened under the effort, under the humiliation he felt at his feeble attempts at something so easy before.

John didn't say another word, didn't take the bite to heart, and simple exhaled loudly through his nose as Sherlock's back lost strength, wobbling his frame slightly, before he focused harder than before. He was going to complete this on his own, no matter what. _No matter what. _

Mycroft's face was sickly pale, his stomach clenched and his heart pounding as he watched but didn't want to, witnessing the red-faced effort of his brother to do something as simple as move a foot of distance from a bed to a chair. He felt sick, the horrible acid feeling rising in his throat. He wasn't sure if it were nostalgia and nightmares or the thick realisation in the starkest of ways that Sherlock's body really was beyond repair.

Sherlock stilled a moment, getting his breath back, his arms trembling as he reached for the other armrest, pulling his body awkwardly into the seat with a heave, his cheeks crimson and his back dripping with sweat. His breath escaped him in ragged puffs as he pulled himself awkwardly into a more comfortable position, finally seated in the wheelchair.

His eyes glassed as he looked at John, crouched before him. "It's good," John nodded as he raised Sherlock's legs onto the foot rests. "It's really good." He assured. He rested both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and pressed their foreheads together in a brief moment of publicly displayed affection before he rose to his feet, ignoring the tears in his own eyes and the look on Mycroft's face, aware that he looked like he was about to topple to the floor. "Stay with him," John said in something halfway between a request and an order, "I'll fetch the nurse."

Mycroft replied to John with a wordless nod as he walked on, a march in his posture echoing the determination on his face. Stiffening himself, Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder but was hastily rejected as Sherlock twisted his waist and arched his back until the hand was removed. It was Mycroft's way of telling Sherlock this was hurting him too without having to admit it and his brother hadn't wanted to hear it, too stuck in his own pain and embarrassment, his own hurt mind; he didn't need Mycroft's too.

Mycroft pulled his hands back to his sides and straightened his back, willing himself to reposition his mask and hide his true feelings. He turned his back on Sherlock and faced in the direction John had gone, awaiting his return with his hands clasped behind his back and his legs trembling in anticipation of what was to come, in fear of the reality of Sherlock's future, and raised his jaw lightly, keeping his calm.

John couldn't return quickly enough and Mycroft almost sighed as he did, a tall, slim female Nurse at his side with a wide, bright-eyed smile and auburn hair dragged back in a bun. Her tunic was half hidden beneath a navy cardigan and she came to a stop at the end of the bed, watching as Sherlock carefully and amateurishly gripped the large wheels of the chair and pulled back in an attempt to turn himself around to face John and the Nurse. It took a few moments, and more than one bump of the chair against the bed, but he managed it without assistant and locked his brimming eyes on John with a final gasp of relief.

"All set?" the nurse gave a bright smile, her arms once folded under her bust now separated as she toyed with her fingers before stepping forwards after awaiting Sherlock's nod of approval. She nodded back and stepped between Mycroft and Sherlock to grip the handles on the back of the chair. "Just mind your hands," She reminded Sherlock as he folded them into his lap obediently. "OK?" she looked up to John.

"Bags," John reminded himself out loud, and leaned over the bed clumsily for the two backpacks. "OK," he nodded, exhaling uncertainly. "All set, I think."

"Let's get you on the move then," She smiled softly and touched against Sherlock's shoulder before beginning to walk. She neglected to notice the stiffening of Sherlock's body at the touch, but John and Mycroft saw it clearly and exchanged, rather habitually, a look of agony and shared exhaustion.

Their walk was near silent, broken only by the Nurse – Kate – enquiring of Sherlock's first appointments at the outpatient clinic, who his physiotherapist was and where it was they were moving to. All the questions had been aimed at Sherlock and answered, carefully, by John as the younger of the three men sat rigidly, eyes forward and smouldering, teeth worrying his lower lip and mind – no doubt – turning over and over at just how different the reality of going home was against the need and the idea. The lift ride to the ground floor of the hospital was excruciatingly quiet, the awkwardness and tension in the air giving John a pounding headache he wished would shift the moment it settled into the side of his skull. He held tightly to both bags in one hand and exhaled the brief wave of uncertainty-induced nausea as it wobbled from his knees to his creased forehead in succession.

"Right…" Kate said with ease and gentle tone, guiding the wheelchair effortlessly through the doorway of the lift and into the main foyer of the hospital. Sherlock closed his eyes, able to feel the fresh air as the automatic, twisting doors swung back and forth ten feet away as patients, visitors and staff stepped in and out of them. "Cab, car or bus?" she asked, their pace quickening a little as they reached the revolving door.

"Car," Mycroft broke in. "It should be parked in the disabled access just to the side of the entrance." He said with his hands in his pockets as they stepped in through the door and out into the cool, early-winter air. Sherlock's sigh of the fresh, cold air was audible to all and cathartic to his rushing mind.

Sure enough, Mycroft's car was parked at the side of the hospital in the designated disabled spots. Kate walked toward it, Mycroft now leading, and pushed the breaks onto the back wheels of the chair as she halted at the side of the dip in the pavement. "Access inside or…"

"No," John stepped in, "Chair in the boot, I'll lift him in." At that point, Mycroft's driver stepped out of the car, every inch the professional man's chuffer in his suit and hat, and took the bags from John's hands to place into the boot of the car. John readied himself under Kate's watchful eye, hoisting up his jeans and fixing his laces before turning to Sherlock, breathing out heavily. "OK? Ready?" he checked.

Silently, his face like thunder, Sherlock nodded. John's nod was brief and authoritative as he stepped forwards, taking Sherlock's right arm, and wrapped it over his neck as he placed his own arm around Sherlock's back. He scooped Sherlock's knees effortlessly – thankful now more than ever for his slim frame – and with a small huff of breath, hoisted Sherlock up into his arms. Mycroft had the door to the back of the grand, stretched car already open and watched with a breath hitched in his chest as John struggled very slightly, his chin drawn down, to manoeuvre Sherlock into the backseat without clanging his head off of the surround of the car.

It took a moment, and a slight readjustment of Sherlock's knees, but John managed to shuffle himself half into the car and placed Sherlock gently into the seat, giving him the ability once inside to pull himself into a more comfortable position. "You can do your belt alright?" John asked as smoothly as he could, able to feel Sherlock's mood radiating through his skin. A nod was his only response and John tried to keep his temper even, trying to be compassionate; he licked his lips and stepped back out of the car. "Of course, once we have our own car I can just position the chair closer to the passenger's seat and he can scoot across." He smiled at Kate, watching Mycroft's driver fold and push the wheelchair into the small boot space without an issue.

Kate returned his smile warmly, "Good luck," She said, reaching out with a soft hand and touched John's forearm. She crouched at the waist and peered inside the open car of the door. "Best of luck, Sherlock," She called inside, not once showing on her face is she was offended when her sentiments went ignored. Straightening back up, she offered a wave with clasping fingers as Mycroft climbed into the car and John followed. Mycroft knocked twice on the divide of the car and it rolled away smoothly.

The silence remained heavy and all-encompassing in the car. Sherlock sat with his back awkward and his knees knocked and turned to the right, with his head resting against the blacked out window beside him. His right hand gripped the door handle whilst his left held tightly to his seatbelt. He looked small, broken and afraid from toes to neck whilst his face set firm in an angry, scornful expression. Mycroft sat proper and silent, his eyes dead ahead, ignoring those around him but not really; he read every movement, every breath and every thought as clearly as if they were shouted into his face.

The awkward silence was torture for John, almost as harsh as the anticipation of home, and he fidgeted and tutted at his own discomfort for the full twenty-minute journey to their new home. John recognised the area immediately as Lisson Grove as the car pulled up to a stop and Mycroft freed himself from the tense atmosphere inside the car, stepping out onto the street. John shuffled out next, checking that the driver had Sherlock's chair out before he peered back into the car.

"Ready for this?" he said calmly and as smoothly as he could, hushing his voice to keep it just for Sherlock. Sherlock took a deep breath and John heard it shudder in his chest. Looking up with wet eyes, tears refusing to fall, Sherlock nodded wordlessly and unbuckled his belt. "You've got to talk to me, tell me when you need my help and when you don't, you know? I don't want to mither you but I want to help you when you need it instead of seeing you struggle. Don't take this the wrong way, right?" John frowned in expectation. "Can you slide yourself down this end of the car without help or…?"

"I can do it," Sherlock swallowed, his voice sounding sore as it escaped from his throat. He'd been silent and emotional for far too long.

John nodded, edging out a sigh of relief. "OK, good." He straightened up, reaching for the chair that had been placed at his side, and ensured the brakes were on as he waited for Sherlock to be within easy reach. "Do you want me to help you out or do you want to try scooting over yourself?"

Sherlock looked up, fingers tight on the ends of the seat, and blinked at John. He took two deep breaths, whistling through his nose. "Help me." He barely whispered the two small but ultimately huge words past his full lips.

John's throat constricted, "Of course." He positioned the chair in the easiest way he could before crouching and reaching into the car, smiling wetly at Sherlock as he embraced him with both arms as he had done back at the hospital and carefully, with a deep sigh, hoisted him up and out of the car, placing him with a shake to his arm down into the wheelchair. He let out a sigh, more out of relief that Sherlock hadn't been bruised in the process than of losing the weight at lifting him.

Sherlock sniffed twice and glanced around. "Wait…" he frowned and looked up to Mycroft, John just out of view as he retrieved the bags out of the back of the car. "All of these houses have steps up to them."

Mycroft shook his head and pointed a short way down the street, "Yes, but as I said before, the house had changes made to it for a previous occupant who was wheelchair bound. There are steps up to your house, too, but there is also a working lift." Mycroft clasped his hand behind his back and looked upon Sherlock as though the boy had lost his mind not to have considered this himself.

"Great…" Sherlock spat, "So there's a big neon sign on our front door saying a cripple lives here." He jutted his lower jaw harshly and closed his eyes as a breeze blew his curls across his forehead.

"No Sherlock, not neon." Mycroft replied petulantly, not voicing how good it was to hear the complaints rather than the buzzing silence.

John appeared between the two of them and reached down, hooking the two bags conveniently over the back of Sherlock's chair. "Manage yourself?" he asked quietly, waiting for Sherlock to snap or jibe with a ready expression of indifference painted on his face for disguise.

"Yeah," Sherlock nodded; his voice equally as quiet as John's when he reached to the sides of him and unlatched the brakes. Mycroft led on, two steps in front whilst John lingered close to the back of Sherlock encase he struggled to move himself. But if the effort was painful, Sherlock refused to show it as he manoeuvred himself at a steady pace behind his brother. The only sign that Sherlock was working was the slightly increased rate of his breathing, otherwise John found himself in awe at the ease with which Sherlock was moving.

Mycroft came to a halt outside of the house that was now his brother and John's. It's black, Georgian style front door was adorned with a large knocker and, just as Mycroft had explained, was led up to by a short path and four stone steps and beside that, built up onto something of an extended front-patio, was a working lift that was designed to hold one wheelchair, bringing it easily from the path up level to the small parapet that made it easy to then reach the front door which was easily accessed by a ramp.

"See," Sherlock hissed, clamping down the breaks as the three of them stood in wait in the street, just staring at the house, "Neon sign!"

"What? What do you mean, neon sign?" John's brow furrowed.

"That-," Sherlock gestured, "…bloody monstrosity!"

"It's a lift, Sherlock. Not sure about you doing it yourself, but I'm pretty certain that I'm not up for bouncing this bloody thing up the steps." John clapped his hand onto the arm rest beside Sherlock's elbow. "It's great Mycroft," John turned his voice softer and a little more subdued. "Thank you."

"Inside is equally as equipped, don't be shy," Mycroft stepped into the street-level gate and held it open with an air of awkwardness as, with a little difficulty and a lot of profanities, Sherlock guided the chair through the gate, grazing the foot rests on more than one occasion but doing it alone, something he was determined to do and something which sat light in John's heart.

"How does it work?" Sherlock asked, nodding to the lift as John came up behind him.

"A simple key," Mycroft reached into his pocket and handed a small, silver key over to Sherlock and another to John. "The doors are opened by the key on the outside, manoeuvre the chair in and the doors lock automatically behind you. Turn the key into the small engine-of-sorts inside and the lift rises. Take the key out, the doors on the opposite side open without the need of the key and voila, you've arrived."

Sherlock turned the key over in his hand, his apprehension creeping back in again, and gave an unsteady sigh. "Need a minute before we go in?" John asked, resisting the urge to reach out and hug the man knowing he would both dislike it as was his manner and dislike it as to feel patronised.

"No," Sherlock straightened his back and, holding the key between his teeth, gripped the wheels again. "No, just get it over with." He managed around his clamped bite, steering himself toward the lift.

John glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft, watching Sherlock work the lift before climbing the stairs. Mycroft had schooled his expression to indifference. "That's his way of saying thank you, you know?" John said, blinking and then turned his eyes back to watch Sherlock deduce his new aid.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson." Mycroft continued up the stairs, standing straight backed and patient at the front door. Maybe it would be OK, maybe it wouldn't, but Mycroft knew he couldn't do more for Sherlock than he currently was and he had to be happy in that. It would be John's place, mostly, to assist Sherlock and Mycroft needed to get into his mind that it was him that, in many respects, that was surplus and that it came down to gestures like the house and financial support for there to be anyway that he could show Sherlock he cared without having to become terribly human about the entire affair and break down into sobs and hugs.

* * *

**We're getting there - I'm quicker at the moment with the rewriting so I HOPE (can't promise, but I HOPE) to have all of the rewriting done in the next two weeks and then I can begin posting the NEW chapters! **

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

The interior of the house was nothing like what John had been expecting. Following carefully behind Sherlock and Mycroft, they were welcomed into a large hallway which was partitioned, rather than directly closed off, from the dining and study space that did away with the awkwardness of doorframes. The kitchen, separate from the reception rooms again by partitioning rather than fully sectioned off rooms, was large with low-level countertops and a standard hob as well as a low, eye-level grill and oven worked into one of the units. Got down to by a lift system similar, but larger, to the one outside, the basement was an enormous living and sleeping space with a sectioned off, fully kitted bathroom. The bath was small, but with a door access and the shower in the corner was fitted with a seat inside, bolted to the wall.

"The top floor is attic space and the first floor is two bedrooms and a bathroom though I would assume that these two floors will be of main use to you both." Mycroft stood with his hands behind his back as Sherlock guided himself around the basement. There was a clear distinction between the sleeping and living space, a double bed in the corner and floor mats that divided up the space whilst right below the tall windows that allowed the light from above to flow in was a designated lounge space with TV, book shelves, coffee-table and sofas, all accessible and with space between them that would allow Sherlock easy movement. "Of course in moving your belongings, they were simply guessed at where they belonged. More personal items were left in boxes and are up on the dining table for you to organise yourselves. I took the liberty of ensuring the fridge and cupboards were stocked." Mycroft said, pushing the convenient button on the lift to bring. He preceded Sherlock and John in and waited for John to faff behind Sherlock before he simply pushed and held the up arrow, stopping at the next level cleanly, "It wasn't rigged to go to the top two floors, simply because the previous owner didn't need to use them. I suppose the same applies here and, if you truly wanted to, you could possibly make use of the rooms in renting them to students, it wouldn't take much in converting one room to a kitchen."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "Mine." He added in a rare moment of comic petulance as he guided the chair sleekly out of the elevator and into the kitchen.

John could see he was exhausted, just as he was, and overwhelmed by all they had to take in; a new home, a new lifestyle, a new area and ultimately they would become new people. It was exhausting, not only mentally but physically, and it was only the beginning. "This is above and beyond, Mycroft…" John sighed, hands on his hips, glancing around the enormous kitchen as Sherlock moved slowly around it, touching everything with long, inquisitive fingers.

"It's what he needs." Mycroft said simply. "There are a few things still to be completely organised, a few kinks to iron out, but ultimately everything is complete." He gave a nod. "The standing frames will be the last to be organised but they are important."

"No rush," John leaned back onto one of the navy-blue counter tops. "He won't be able to use them until he's strong enough and that could take weeks, months realistically." John was certain something close to disappointment crossed Mycroft's face. "He needs to be strong enough, I mean there are probably ways around it, tighter supports and all but for him to fully get the benefit of being able to stand he'd be better if his upper body was strong enough, he'd be able to move a little more rather than be confined against the supports." John explained briefly. "By all means if they arrive he can use them, I'm just saying," he dug deeper, scrutinised by Mycroft's hawk-like gaze. "The stronger he is in his arms and upper back, the more beneficial the standers are; he'll be able to work, or play the violin or whatever, but he needs to be strong from the waist up, you know?"

"You are the medical man, Doctor Watson." Mycroft simply nodded with his face blank of anything but nothingness. "I trust it's up to your standards, Sherlock?" he called out, his voice a little louder, watching Sherlock with focused eyes.

Sherlock was silent, down the far end of the kitchen, his hands on the wheels of his chair but unmoving as he gazed around him in innocent wonder. But his expression, sharp and dark and full of torment, gave away his resigned unease and enervation.

"You OK?" John asked when no reply was offered, not even in the way of a facial expression. "Sherlock?" he called for his attention, "Are you OK?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock's brow creased as he rested back, his arms on the armrests.

"Hungry?" John asked, simply for something to say and out of a childish urge to raid the new kitchen. "I could fix us all something to eat, you too Mycroft." He insisted.

"No thank you, John," Mycroft said calmly and politely and John noticed that his Christian name was slipping out of Mycroft's mouth more and more recently. He wondered if it were simply down to his softening at Sherlock's situation. "Oh, not even a cup of tea?" John offered, thumbing toward a sleek looking, brand new kettle on the counter. John hadn't taken in too much that the counters were low, though it was immediately obvious they were. Not being especially tall it wouldn't be of huge inconvenience to him and would be more beneficial to Sherlock.

"No, thank you." Mycroft pushed his hands into his pockets. "I have…business to attend to. As long as you are OK, Sherlock, I will see myself out and be in touch after the weekend." He turned to head into the hallway.

"Mycroft," Sherlock called out, unmoving in his position but insistent in his tone.

Mycroft froze and turned back, "Hmm?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to form words and trying to avoid them at the same time. He breathed out through his nose and drew his lips to the side before slackening his jaw again. "Thank you."

Mycroft's face didn't display even the simplest of reactions; he simply nodded slowly by way of reply and turned again. "Goodbye Sherlock, Doctor Watson…" he called out, his shoes loud on the floorboards in the hall.

John watched Mycroft leave with both relief at his absence and apprehension. As the door closed with something of a slam behind the older man, John let out a held breath and turned back to Sherlock, eyebrows up. "Welcome home," he muttered carefully.

"You too," Sherlock drew in his bottom lip.

"Feeling OK?" John asked, resting back against the counter again, one leg crossed over the other, with his arms folded over his chest. He hadn't removed his coat as he'd entered the house – it almost felt like they were visitors so it hadn't seemed right.

"Mostly," Sherlock replied, his tone cool and despondent.

"Is your back sore? In fairness you've been upright all day, that hasn't happened so far." John scratched the back of his neck and then folded his arms again, eyes licking over Sherlock before scanning the kitchen again, trying to get used to it.

"Bit, maybe…" Sherlock replied, eyes cast everywhere in a mirror to John.

"Want to shower and burn your clothes?" John asked and when Sherlock looked at him, finally, with a deep frown he chuckled. "…when I was a medical student, I worked on the ward for a while and used to see a patient every day. He'd been in a car accident…both legs were amputated to the knee," he rubbed his chin as Sherlock swallowed audibly. "…on the day he was leaving, he was so jovial and bright, had been awake most of the night before and was already positioned in his chair to go home when his parents arrived to pick him up. I stopped them as they were leaving, wished him luck and asked him what he was going to do first when he got home….he laughed and said he wanted to have a long, hot shower and then burn his clothes, anything to get rid of the smell of hospitals from his body." John's smile was sad as it lingered on his stretched up cheeks and it took a moment or two to bring himself back.

"Shower maybe," Sherlock sniffed, seemingly cold to the sentiment but John could see a flicker of something in his expression at the story. "No burning of anything, though. And before you ask, no; I'm not hungry. But tea brewed properly would be a pleasurable experience." His tone was harsh but John knew it wasn't directed at him.

"Tea it is, then." John pushed himself straight, "Wonder which cupboard…"

"Probably the one closest to the fridge for the tea, mugs on the opposite side…" Sherlock said quickly and watched as John found the items in exactly those places.

"Did you look around here already?" John laughed.

"No-," Sherlock shook his head, "But Mycroft laid his own kitchen out the same way and the family home whenever our Mother asked for his help,"

"That's cheating." John chuckled, placing two mugs on the counter before he took the kettle to the sink to fill it.

Sherlock's sigh was huge, "No, it's just remembering. I don't cheat, John. I never cheat."

"No." John humoured him softly, "Of course not."

"I'm going downstairs," Sherlock placed his hands on the wheels to move forwards and bumped himself into the low cupboard door. With a grunt, he twisted his hands to turn himself backward a little more, trying to gain space to turn slightly, and bumped the handle of the chair against the counter, giving the chair a jolt forwards. Sherlock huffed out through his nose and threw himself backwards, "Fuck!" He slapped the arm of the chair before pummelling his legs with both fists – a tool John was coming to hate – letting out a horribly deep, long growl with it. "Argh!"

Flicking the kettle on quickly, John turned to Sherlock and crouched as he grabbed at his hands, cupping Sherlock's wrists tightly and lifted his arms up. "Stop it! Stop; you're going to hurt yourself."

"Well I can't feel it so what does it matter!" Sherlock yelled, anger swimming in his eyes, spitting the words out through clenched teeth. He writhed back and forth, twisting his arms to pull them from John's grip. "Get off me; I'm not a child…"

"Then stop it, stop hitting out at yourself. You're angry, I know and you're frustrated, _I know_. But throwing punches at your thighs isn't going to change that nor is yelling at me." John's voice instinctively fell softer at the end of his rant and his grip loosened as Sherlock pulled back. But he didn't hit out at himself again. Resting his hands in his lap, Sherlock's breathing rocked a moment as he fought off showing any more emotion than he already had. "It's been a stressful day and it's going to take some getting used to but…this place – it's brilliant."

"It's not home," Sherlock shook his head. "It's not Baker Street."

"But it's not far, Sherlock. We couldn't have stayed, it wouldn't have worked. We're close by; we can visit Mrs Hudson any time you like. But it's going to be OK here – it's got everything you need, it's like bloody spaceship." John chuckled breathily and Sherlock smirked despite himself. "It's a lot of adjustment, I know. And like I said, today's been a tough one. Don't get stressed, just take a minute to breathe."

"I can't even move around the fucking kitchen." Sherlock rolled his head back and sighed.

"Because you're getting stressed out; I'll help. Let me make the tea then you can carry them." John got back to his feet.

Sherlock looked almost disgusted, "I can't."

"Why not? You've got wheels for legs, Sherlock, not hands. I have hands for pushing and legs for walking. You hold the cups, I'll steer the buggy." John winked over his shoulder, standing at the counter.

"It's not a buggy." Sherlock corrected quickly.

"Name it." John turned as he reached into the fridge for milk. "Name the chair so I don't have to spend the rest of my life calling it chair."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not taken in by the childishness. "Don't be ridiculous, it's an inanimate object."

"Wrong," John stirred their tea, his back to Sherlock. "It's part of who you are now so make it personal and by that I don't mean urinating in it like a bloody cat marking its territory," For some reason Sherlock found the line wholly funny and laughed despite his best efforts to remain stubborn-faced and mardy. "Give it a cool name like…, God, I don't know," John leaned back on the counter again and looked at Sherlock, shrugging his shoulders.

"Baskerville?"

"Baskerville?" John repeated. "Where the hell did you hear that?"

"Some book," Sherlock shrugged, rubbing his fingers along the armrests either side of him before looking up at John. "I like it. Baskerville. John, put Baskerville in the back of the car. John, grab Baskerville from the bathroom…." He tried it out.

"Sounds like a dog," John admitted.

"No, if I wanted a dog I'd name it Mycroft."

John rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the laugh that brewed in his chest, "That's mean."

"When can I go back to work?" The question from Sherlock's lips was so sudden, so off-beat that it took John more by surprise than he assumed Sherlock meant it to.

His mouth bobbed open and no words formed, bringing a frown to Sherlock's brow so thick John wondered if it would ever smooth out again. "You've been home an hour…" he cleared his throat.

"I didn't ask how long we'd been here, John." Sherlock snapped and glared at John, met only with the doctor's crinkled expression of disbelief, born out of having no idea what to stay. "Don't look at me like that." Sherlock cleared his throat and sighed, dropping his hands to the wheels again and forced his chair straight, avoiding further conversation with John – and taking away the ability for John to say anything to turn the conversation around – and disappeared at a slow but steady pace out of the kitchen and carefully into the fitted lift, vanishing from John's line of vision.

John let out a sigh and rubbed both of his hands harshly across his tired face, scrubbing into his eyes until they felt raw before he pulled his hands away, leaving his vision momentarily blurred. The lift, though mostly quiet, had a recognisable sound and John listened as its doors opened softly on the level below. The sounds of the wheelchair against the hardwood floor throughout were unmistakable too as Sherlock exited the lift and it was hard to ignore the metal-on-metal clatter and string of profanities as the chair hit off the doors of the lift as he exited.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, John rolled his shoulders and his aching neck before taking the cups in his hands and left the kitchen, it was only then that he realised a small, narrow stairway down into the basement still existed, tucked under the stairs that led up, right beside the carved out space for the lift shaft. Uncarpeted like the rest of the house, his steps were heavy as he descended the enclosed staircase, his eyes on the cups to ensure nothing spilled, his mind on the unrelenting niggling fear that things were going to get much worse before getting even an inch better.

* * *

**We're getting there - I'm quicker at the moment with the rewriting so I HOPE (can't promise, but I HOPE) to have all of the rewriting done in the next two weeks and then I can begin posting the NEW chapters! **

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	15. Chapter 15

The first night in Lisson Grove was a comfortable one, seeing the awkwardness of the day slowly beginning to fade. John had stood back and watched with itchy hands as Sherlock clumsily – but all on his own – moved from 'Baskerville' to the sofa down in the basement. John ordered pizza and coaxed Sherlock into eating more than half a slice as they sat together on the sofa, comfortable with the closeness they'd both missed since the accident. The sudden intimacy after so long without caused John's body to react in its usual way, but with heady determination he ignored its insistence and snuggled his arm around Sherlock a little more, their eyes set on the television though not taking it in, and just thanked God silently that he was able to hug Sherlock at all; the bullets could have caused so much more damage.

In both a romantic gesture and something born out of ease, John had scooped Sherlock into his arms and carted him across to the bed after the ten o'clock news. He allowed Sherlock the privacy to undress and wash himself before bed, only stepping in when the frustrated huffing threatened to turn to tears, and held the covers back as Sherlock lay flat and comfortable in the large, luxurious bed. John had noticed the tears that lingered in Sherlock's eyes in the dim orange glow of the lamp left on in the lounge to keep the room bright enough should they need to get up in the night. He didn't say a word, though; he pulled Sherlock closer to him, his arm encasing him tightly, and stayed awake until Sherlock's exhausted body grew limp and his breathing even as he fell deeply asleep.

John found it hard to shut down his own mind, though, and sleep didn't come easily. He positioned Sherlock more comfortably on his side of the bed, using cushions as props behind Sherlock for stability and then lay flat on his back, one hand cradling his head, and stared up at the painted ceiling above him. He couldn't believe Mycroft had done what he'd done for Sherlock – for both of them – and the sensation of somebody going above and beyond the call of duty for a loved one when it was most unexpected of the person was strange. His other hand rested on his tummy over his t-shirt and he could feel the beat of his heart and the rush of his breaths beneath his fingers. His heart was still beating fast, as it had been doing pretty much since the shooting; he was certain it would take until the gunman was caught for it to slow back into a normal rhythm.

A snuffle or two from Sherlock throughout the entire night was the only indication to John that he was actually sharing a bed with the man again as Sherlock didn't move from his position the entire night, entirely too exhausted and comfortable, and didn't wake once. John only managed three hours between six and nine before being disturbed by the buzzing of his phone on the locker beside his bed. He woke with an insomnia hangover, eyes foggy and head heavy, and reached across quickly to avoid disturbing Sherlock whose brows merely twitched at the noise.

John coughed, clearing what little sleep he'd achieved from his throat before holding the phone to his ear without examining the screen. "Hello?"

"John, hi, did I wake you? Sorry." Lestrade's voice was low and honest, fatherly as ever.

"No, no it's fine. Just a sec-," John whispered, shuffling quickly from the bed, his pyjama bottoms loose on his hips as he padded across the floor over to the sofa beneath the window, bright with what little light was allowed to trickle in from the sun behind heavy, wintry clouds. "Sorry, Sherlock's still out of it." John sunk into the comfortable couch and rubbed at his tired eyes. "What's up?"

"A courtesy call, mostly." Greg replied, "How's the new place?"

"Astonishing," John replied with a chuckle. "It's like the TARDIS." He sniffed and smiled as Greg matched his laugh. "Nothing new, I take it?"

"Nothing huge – no match on the prints across the UK; if they're a repeat offender, they're not a British citizen and if they are British then they've never been caught before," Greg sighed.

"Which makes the entire thing infinitely more difficult," John finished form him. He couldn't help the disgruntled sigh that flooded past his lungs and lulled his head back against the sofa. "We need some good news, Greg. We need something to go on or something positive."

Greg's voice cracked, "We're trying, honestly. I swear, Donovan's going to wear herself into the ground. There's something in this that's really riled her up."

"Guilt?" John questioned through a long yawn.

"Possibly," The DI supposed. "How is he, anyway?"

"Sherlock?" John scratched his cheek then slapped his hand lightly against it in an attempt to waken himself up. "He's up and down by the hour; one minute he's determined the next he's not. Hasn't cried, not really but I think there's going to come a point when it hits, you know? Probably when the day's going well and he just suddenly gets it on him like a tonne of bricks. His outpatient physio appointments start tomorrow and I think that, if nothing else might push him over."

Greg gave something between a laugh and a sympathetic sigh before he replied, "Yeah, I can imagine; not only will there be somebody telling him what to do but also somebody touching him – not the biggest man for affection is he so I dare say it won't go well."

"He'll probably bite their heads off, yeah." John exhaled a laugh, "Listen, thanks for calling. Maybe come over, y'know, off duty. Familiar faces and all that, call it a housewarming or something-,"

"Sure," Greg replied quickly, light-toned. "Let me know when's good for you. I'll bring the beer."

"Great," John sat up. "See ya, Greg."He didn't wait for the reply before hanging up the phone, throwing it lightly down onto the coffee table. He rested his elbows on his knees a moment, cradling his head in his hands as his chin dragged down into another, exhausted yawn. He drummed his fingers tightly on his head before resolving to 'get up and go' and made his way to the bathroom. He threw himself into a hot shower and washed away the past week and a half with great-smelling shower-gel, courtesy of Mycroft.

He lingered more than was necessary for a standard shower as he paid his body the attention it had missed for the last few days, hands expert and quick across tender flesh bringing about an unimpressive but sudden and sharp orgasm with Sherlock's name whispering on his lips. His forehead pressed against the tiles, water thundered down against his shoulders as he stood to catch his breath before he braced himself for climbing out into the cooler air.

He quickly wrapped himself in a white, fluffy towel from the shelf in the corner, stocked with all kinds of bathroom essentials. He shook his head as he used a smaller towel to dry his hair, glancing around the bathroom – well, something closer to a wet-room – smiling at all the things Mycroft had considered that would lead somebody who didn't know him to believe he was an interior designer with streaked blonde hair and a penchant for calling people 'darling'. John realised then, if he hadn't before, that the older Holmes brother – much like the younger – was merely trained in not showing his emotions; it wasn't that he didn't have any, just that he preferred to keep them all for himself.

Bundling up his pyjamas, John walked back into the bedroom and smiled at Sherlock's still-sleeping form, arms up by his face as he lay on his side, the pillow still behind him offering soft support to his back. He lingered a moment, thinking 'looks can be deceiving', before rifling through the cupboards and draws in search of his clothes. He left Sherlock sleeping as he went upstairs to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the two of them. Toast for Sherlock with the smallest flick from a butter knife, and hot, sweet tea to go with it. His lack of sleep the night before had left him feeling a little nauseous but he buttered toast for himself, too, knowing not eating wasn't the right way to go and piled everything onto a tea tray to bring back down to Sherlock. He padded carefully down the stairway, trying not to jostle the tray too much, and slipped on silent feet across the lounge to the bedroom. He smiled a little, half out of love and half out of embarrassment, as he was met by Sherlock's wide eyes.

"Ow," John frowned comically, "I was going to give you breakfast in bed."

"Well-," Sherlock coughed, "I'm still in bed and you're holding breakfast so it's not entirely impossible to still achieve."

John rolled his eyes, "Half of the fun is waking the person you're offering breakfast too. More romantic, it's one of those sentimental things again Sherlock. C'mon, thought you'd have caught on by now." He smiled again, placing the tray onto the mattress on his side of the bed where the covers were thrown back. "Tea and toast, and…" he leaned forwards and kissed Sherlock's head, "Good morning,"

"Morning," Sherlock said as he drew his arm from beneath the pillow and leaned against it, rising his upper body up onto his elbow.

"Can you sit; want some help?" John asked gently, aware he could set Sherlock off into a rant with something as simple as this question but needing to ask it anyway.

Throwing his other arm behind him, gaining purchase, Sherlock shook his head, "Just push the pillows up," he huffed, his wrists bearing his weight. "I can sit back." John nodded and reached across the bed as Sherlock lifted his upper body away from the pillows. He pushed them back against the headboard, stacked to offer as much leverage as possible, and hovered as Sherlock twisted his hips enough to turn onto his back completely before dragging himself backward. The effort showed on his face, his cheeks puffing as he moved in an action that was clearly uncomfortable. He sat back with a sigh, a little unevenly and still a little far down the bed, but all off of his own merit and essentially sitting upright against the headboard.

"Comfy?" John checked and received a slight nod for his troubles. "Sure?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock nodded breathlessly, adjusting his position a little with white-knuckled determination until he managed to drag his bottom back a little more. He sighed, smiled sleepily and nodded certainly at John.

"Here," John held out the plate of toast to Sherlock. "I expect you to eat every last bit, too. And I'll put your tea on the locker beside you, will you reach it alright?"

Examining his plate, Sherlock nodded. "Thanks,"

"I was thinking," John began, positioning himself next to Sherlock on the bed, his tea in hand, watching the detective reluctantly attack his slice of toast.

"Dangerous," Sherlock replied with his eyes down on his plate.

"Possibly," John agreed. "If you're bored, which is a given, but if you don't want to stay home after being in the hospital without any fresh air for so long, I thought maybe we could do the short walk round to Baker Street; we could grab coffee in Speedy's, see Mrs Hudson, I know she'd like it and I know, despite whatever you might say, that you would too."

Licking his lips, a small bite of toast between his teeth, Sherlock finally looked up at John again, eyebrows quirked at the suggestion. "S'pose." He swallowed, "Greg's not planning on coming over for the housewarming today then?" he asked with a sniff.

John rolled his eyes behind closed lids, "You've been awake this whole time?"

"Your phone rang in an otherwise silent setting, of course I was awake. I was just comfortable, didn't want to move…forgot for a moment that I couldn't…" he mumbled and it tore into John's heart like a dagger. "No, don't…" Sherlock put out his hand as John went to reach out to touch him, "Its fine," he quirked his brows again. "Coffee with Mrs Hudson…fresh air…great, riveting, let's do it." his voice was both sarcastic and sincere, born out of the need to do anything but crumble and John accepted it as though Sherlock had danced the hula in appreciation at the suggestion.

"Good," John nodded and raised his cup to his lips, eyes watching as Sherlock grimaced, moving his shoulders uncomfortably, unable to find a position he felt truly comfortable in and unable to move successfully in search of one. John said nothing, though; he wanted to get the balance right with Sherlock, not risk a meltdown or an argument that he knew they were just hanging on the cusp of. He wanted to savour the full day they had together, outside of the hospital, and try to begin establishing a routine or a flow to how their life would be from now on.

With nominal hesitation from Sherlock, John helped the detective into the shower and out again with the love and attention he deserved, but it didn't cool the humiliation for Sherlock whose cheeks fired and temper flared until he was restored to a come comfortable state of dress. It made John's stomach clench to position Sherlock into his sanitation underwear before pulling on his clothes and he knew that Sherlock felt hideous at the intrusion, head thrown back on the pillow with tears in his eyes. John was sure, over time, that he'd manage to dress himself without help but as it stood he required John's assistance throughout the task, the activity tiring him without the ability to move his lower body into more attainable positions. With his mood plummeting and his patience non-existent, he flopped with wet hair into his wheelchair with an expression fit to kill as John disappeared back upstairs with the breakfast dishes, both allowing Sherlock a moment to himself and getting himself out of the firing line should Sherlock's temper break.

He realised it was all about finding the balance; there were going to be times when Sherlock was embarrassed by the help he needed or the acts that had to take place and there would be times when he'd get angry. John had to learn that the anger wasn't really aimed at him, had to learn to be as quick and thorough as possible and also learn that putting space between them was a good thing – Sherlock needed his own time, his own space to breathe and think and John needed to remember that he was John Watson, not just there to be all Sherlock couldn't at the moment. He knew what he had to do; it was just difficult to do it. He didn't want to see Sherlock struggle but he didn't want to baby him, either – balancing had never been so difficult.

It was the slight laugh behind him that finally alerted John to Sherlock's presence. Crouched before the washing machine, trying his hardest to work out how to put a load on a woollen wash with an extra rinse, his face the picture of an uneducated househusband, John looked utterly perplexed as he peered over his shoulder to the kitchen walkway to see Sherlock, curls dried and silky, both frowning and smiling at him with devilment in his eyes.

John sat back on his heels and turned himself enough to look at Sherlock, "What are you snickering at?" he cocked an eyebrow. "How about you come over here and work the bloody Starship."

"Make your mind up;" Sherlock rolled his eyes, moving further into the kitchen, "Is the Starship or the TARDIS? Doctor Who or Star Trek. If you have to be a geek in my presence, John, at least stop mixing up your references."

"I wish I'd never introduced you to the Sci-Fi channel." John tutted his amusement, licking his lips as Sherlock halted at his side. "I can't work the machine," he pointed at it, lights flashing and a small squealing noise was coming from inside somewhere.

"I know, I could hear you muttering to yourself. You and machines don't get on too well, do you?" Sherlock asked with the playfulness still lingering on his brow. "Forget the washing; you said we were leaving the house today. I've been cooped up for ages and I need fresh air."

"We can go out the minute I put this load on," John scratched the back of his head, "…and machines and I get on just fine, thank you." He pushed himself up from the floor and then crouched on his toes, knees bent wide, staring at the buttons. "Oh…bloody easy. Look," he pushed the start button, realising he'd pushed it in too far the first time and inadvertently set the machine on pause. In an instant, the machine began to hum as water was drawn in through the back. "See, told you we get on fine."

"Yes, yes; big chief make fire." Sherlock schooled his expression to one of indifference. "Can we go now? I want to remember what clean air smells like."

"We live in London, Sherlock." John stretched his back out as he rose up again, "Clean air in this city is impossible to find and would you shift your arse or I can't get past to find my shoes." He cocked his head at Sherlock and poked his foot out, kicking his toe lightly on the foot rest with a wink. "In the words of my mother, you make a better wall than a walk-way."

"Door than a window," Sherlock said, turning himself with little aggravation.

"What?"

"The saying is 'you make a better door than a window', as in, you're blocking my view." Sherlock's tone was matter of fact and perfectly usual; the same old Sherlock and John prayed it lasted.

John smiled, dragging it out. "I know that saying too, but if you're a wall rather than a walk-way, then you're a blockage." He explained, retrieving his boots from the bottom of the stairs that led up, sitting down onto the second step to pull them on and loop the laces. Sherlock had followed him right down the hall and waited, wordlessly, as John immediately began fixing his shoes after his own.

"Kind of like constipation, then?"

John's teeth parted in a slight laugh as he shook his head, "In a fashion, Sherlock, yeah." He rose to his feet. "Want me to grab you a jacket?"

"Coat," Sherlock said as John headed toward the stairs down to the basement, "And," he called out, waiting for John's footsteps to halt. "My scarf,"

"Of course, no outfit on Sherlock Holmes would be complete without a navy scarf. But I'm not sure if I've got another winter coat. You're welcome to mine and I can wear that green jacket, it's warm enough." John muttered back before trundling back up the stairs to peek around at Sherlock. He took in the Detective's expression warily.

"My coat not yours, why would I want yours?" A frown danced across Sherlock's face where it had previously been rather light.

"Your coat's probably under ten tonne of rubbish by now," John smirked and then thought better of it. He took a stead breath and approached Sherlock, "Sherlock, there were bullet holes in the back of it and the hospital staff had to cut you out of it in A and E. Look, we can find you a new coat." He tapped his hand on Sherlock's where it rested limply over the armrest. "You can wear a jacket of mine for now, it'll be warm enough it's not that cold out."

Sherlock snatched his arm back angrily, "No, I can't." he snapped. "That's my coat, it was _my _coat; they can't just cut up my things. It's my coat!"

"They had no choice Sherlock; would you relax? It's just a coat. We could probably find one the exact same in the city." John threw his hand to the door in wild gesture.

"No we can't," Sherlock growled, "That's my coat, my coat. Not just some coat or other on the high street! MINE!" He gritted his teeth together as he yelled, glaring up at John with venom in his eyes.

"It's just a coat, Sherlock. I know you like to be all mysterious in it but it's just a coat." John did his best to placate.

"It's not!" Sherlock spat. "Move," he dropped his hands down to the wheels. "John, move or I'll move you." He insisted angrily, ramming forwards with the chair. "Move!"

Hands up defensively, John stepped aside and let Sherlock go, watching him struggle slightly in his anger as he disappeared into the long dining room-cum-study. Sitting down on the bottom step of the up-stairs, John cradled his head in his hands and tried to make sense of the sudden switch in mood. He'd always known Sherlock was fond of his coat, but to be this upset about it perplexed John deeply. To him, though somewhat iconic with the man he'd come to love, it was just a coat and coats could be replaced. And then John wondered if it were more than a coat to Sherlock – he wondered if it were Sherlock's last ditch attempt to cling onto the identity he'd almost lost since the shooting. Before, he was Sherlock Holmes the great detective whom everyone, in some way or another, admired or hated but above all was astonished by. Now, he was almost literally half of who he used to be and John realised that not only was Sherlock's coat something of a thread still linking him to who he used to be, but it was a cape; put it on and become braver, become the Consulting Detective, escape the confines of his chair and be who he was once again.

John sat in his own silence for a moment before slapping his hands once against his knees in a metaphorical kick up the arse. He rose to his feet and slipped warily into the large reception room. Sherlock had positioned himself at the table, laptop open and an internet page was draw up on his website. John couldn't read anything clearly as the glare from the window light hit against the screen oddly. He cleared his throat and took baby steps toward Sherlock, pulling out the dining chair closest to him and sunk into it, siting across it sideways, resting one elbow on the table and the other on the back of the chair.

"I know it's not _just_ a coat." He began slowly, "And I know what you're like about people touching your things, though I don't know why because you've no regard for others belongings." John scratched his ear and watched Sherlock's eyebrows rise up and fall back down with disgust. "…clinging onto a coat to try and pretend nothing has changed wouldn't be healthy." He said with a soft voice. "Wearing it, had it been in-tact, wouldn't have stopped you being paralysed, or turned back the clocks, or made people look past the chair, Sherlock. It'd all still be there."

"I'm not stupid." Sherlock slushed into his hands before finally turning his head to look at John. "I know all of that."

"We can buy you a new coat, one the same or one different; whatever you want, you can have it because like it or not, Sherlock, everything's changing now and gripping tightly to the past is unhealthy. You're not the same person you were anymore and…"

"Spare me the philosophical preamble, Doctor Watson." Sherlock breathed out heavily through his nose. "I over-reacted, I was…illogical and overemotional over something insignificant. I know." He tilted his head. "I just wanted one thing that wasn't taken from me."

"I'm still here," John suggested, delivered with all the America's Sweetheart mush with which it was intended. "And you're still alive; it could easily have been something fatal."

"Don't rationalise it like that," Sherlock snatched his arm back as John touched it lightly with his fingers. "I'm angry about this," he slapped the bars of his chair, "I'm angry, so God damned angry; it doesn't matter that I lived or died, what matters is that I feel angry about what I'm left with. You're a Doctor, John; you know I'm allowed to feel this way."

"Yeah," John's brows arched up and his voice dripped urgently from his tongue, "But before I am a Doctor and you are a victim, I am John, OK? I'm me and I love you and it's hurting me to see you this way. And it's not about the coat," he rubbed his hands over his chin, "It's about you rushing to get back to normal when you can't; you've got to make a new normal. And you can start by getting a new…fucking…coat."

Sherlock expelled a heavy breath and dragged his mouth to the side, staring at John with eyes flicking over his entire face. He wanted to say more, John could tell, but he stayed silent. He was uncomfortable and vulnerable and felt so humiliated by his situation that he was lost for words to explain the enormity of it and John knew this; he could see it all in his face, behind his eyes. The anger, though directed at him, wasn't truly anger toward John but at his life, at his emotions, at his lack of control. John wanted to be able to give him back the control he was lacking but knew that it had to be the right time, Sherlock had to be strong enough and, pretend as he might, right now he wasn't there yet.

Sherlock moved himself back from the table and licked his full lips, "If we're going out, we'd better go now before I change my mind about life entirely."

In Sherlock-speak that was "_I'm sorry, I love you too, I'm scared and I need you_". John's cheek tugged up into a half smile on the left side and he nodded, "Come on," he rose to his feet, "Let's go."

The cool breeze hit John's face and caught his breath the moment he pulled open the front door. It was a small shock, making him inhale quickly, but it was refreshing and exhilarating, too. He stepped aside, eyes fixed on Sherlock as he tried twice before successfully manoeuvring himself through the front door and then locked the door behind them. He waited at the top of the steps until Sherlock had the lift engaged and then rushed down, waiting to meet him at the bottom. Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh at his failed attempts to turn the chair the couple of inches it needed to slip easily out of the lift and looked up to John with desperation in his eyes, the bantering of minutes before lost in the inability to do something so small.

"Whoa, alright, Calamity Jane," John stepped up as Sherlock wacked the foot rest against the lift again, "You're going to damage the chair and yourself."

"Shut up and help me." Sherlock growled low in his chest as John wrapped his hands around the armrests and straightened the chair up a little, giving Sherlock the room to push forwards and roll out easily. He watched the lift doors swing shut in Sherlock's absence before following behind Sherlock, out of the gate.

"Oops, everything alright?" John frowned, walking into the back of Sherlock as he stepped out from fixing the latch across the gate. Sherlock sighed twice with eyes closed then craned his neck back to look at John. There were tears of frustration in his eyes again and his lips were pulled into a tight line. "Want me to…?" he asked, clasping his hands around the handles. Sherlock's nod was small but obvious as he brought his hands into his lap. John licked his lips, wanting to reach down and squeeze Sherlock's shoulder, but went for the chirpier, 'paste over it' option. "Right then," he stepped forwards, propelling Sherlock onward. "On your right you'll see a fantastic imitation of a home not unlike our own," he began in a low voice, "On your left is…a fucking great bus blocking the view," John grumbled as the red bus in question came to screeching halt at the empty stop, to let passengers off.

Despite himself, Sherlock breathed a laugh out through his nose. "The bus doesn't really sell the tour I'm afraid," he played along, much to John's amazement. "Refund, please." He held his hand back in John's direction.

"Non-refundable tickets," John shook his head, having been about to turn against the pavement to cross, silently thanking he'd been watching the roads carefully. "I hope Mrs Hudson's in, I didn't call ahead." John mused, checking the road before moving across it quickly, his fingers tight around the handles of the chair as though it would somehow make Sherlock safer.

"Not going to be anywhere else, is she?" Sherlock answered with a little petulance.

"She could be doing that thing that people do, Sherlock; you know, going out and making friends." John tilted his head round, trying to catch Sherlock's face but his chin was buried so deeply in his scarf his expression was unreadable from the side. "Anyway, how are you feeling? Better now you're out?"

Sherlock nodded, rocking his head back a bit, "Don't feel so confined, yeah." He supposed. "Stop a second," he said rather suddenly, holding out his hands. "I can do it…" he let his arms down as John slowed.

"Sure? I don't mind, you know, if you want to just…catch your breath." John wanted to say 'sit back' but daren't.

Sherlock shook his head, his fingers poking out of his coat sleeves to take the lips on the wheels. "No, I want to." He cleared his throat and thrust forwards slowly with John right at his side, step for step. John knew it was because they were growing ever nearer to Baker Street, he knew that Sherlock wanted to be presented to Mrs Hudson as 'the man who could'. Had John been pushing the wheelchair into the café, it would have looked as though he was pitiful – or, at least John knew that was how Sherlock's mind worked – and Sherlock didn't want that. John knew this was a cape, pulled over his extremely unsure and frightened body in an attempt to mask all of that and show the world that, despite his legs not working, he was coping just fine, thank you very much.

Crossing into Baker Street, John found it hard to keep the butterflies in his tummy at bay. His eyes stayed on Sherlock, but to watch his step, and he found himself wondering if he was feeling the same apprehension. He scolded himself for it though, for feeling unsure about this, because why should he? He'd lived in Mrs Hudson's company for an entire year – why was it strange to visit her? Was he worried what it would do to her, to her emotions? Or was he scared of how Sherlock would react to her if he saw her reaction to him? He tried to bury all of it, to do away with every negative thought and just be happy to see Sherlock so determined about something, even if it was only point-proving; he tried his hardest.

John stepped ahead of Sherlock to rap the knocked on the door of 221b and waited patiently. Almost immediately, though, the door was pulled open, and both boys painted a small smile on their faces as Mrs Hudson stepped out, her hands flying to her mouth when her eyes flicked across her two, male visitors. "Oh, boys!" she screeched, arms open wide to hug John before she crouched a little and encased Sherlock tightly, kissing the side of his cheek whether he liked it or not before she pulled back, cupping his face in her hands. "Oh…you," She swallowed, blinking thick tears down her cheeks. "I was so worried about you, Sherlock."

It took her a moment to finally let go, but when she did she beamed a bright smile between both of the men before her. "I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. Look-," Sherlock held his arms wide open. "Absolutely fine; I'm fine."

John smiled, always a fan of Sherlock's convincing voice when his face told another story, and placed his hands on the back of the chair. "Tea, Mrs Hudson? If you're not busy, we can sit in the café."

Wiping her cheeks dry with her fingers, the woman smiled brightly, her cheeks pushing up to her eyes. "Of course I'm not busy; wait here one minute." She dipped back in through the black door, returning a second later with her handbag and door keys. "Right, let's go. Do you…I mean…can I…oh," She held one hand to her forehead and looked with sympathetic eyes on Sherlock, standing on the step into Speedy's. "I can help, we can lift…," she flustered, seemingly of the same opinion as John; to help or not to help.

"It's alright, Mrs Hudson, go on in; I can manage," John reached out, his reassuring hand cupping her arm. "Go on," he whispered to her, "He'd probably prefer not having the audience, anyway." Mrs Hudson's face pulled into one of sympathetic understanding and she nodding, turning into the café and waited, unable to keep her eyes from 'her boys' as John gripped the handles, turning Sherlock to face the street, before carefully but speedily pulling the chair up over the first step, stalling for just a moment as Sherlock took a sharp breath before he dragged it up over the second and in through the door with millimetres to spare. John sighed out, having half expected not to make it through the doorway, and peered around to Sherlock. "OK?"

Sherlock gave a silent nod, a little unnerved by the jostling and took a few steady breaths, "Fine," he managed, "I'm f-fine, why wouldn't I be?" he asked, dropping his hands down to the lip of the wheels again now that he was back on solid ground, taking control once more. John knew that this – along with the self-harming by way of battery he'd taken to – would be Sherlock's way of being the bigger person, of being the one in charge, knowing that John wouldn't move the chair if his hands were over the wheels. John held his arms back, hands up in a defensive stance as Sherlock edged the chair back before turning slightly, with some difficulty and a loud clatter as the footrest hit off the leg of a chair, screeching it across the tiled floor a bit.

"Sherlock let me just…" John stepped forwards, receiving a dark scowl from Sherlock's pointed eyes. "…stop it, OK? Let me just move the chair and you can do the rest yourself, alright? Jeez." He walked around the opposite side and lifted up a chair, bringing it away from the table indicating they would sit there, making space for Sherlock to get through as well as quietly dragging another table over a fraction, chairs and all, giving Sherlock's better access with his unease at guiding the wheelchair. "There," John said, shaking his head when Sherlock's lower jaw set firm and he skimmed his hands forwards, turning himself into the table, his back to John and Mrs Hudson. "I'm sorry-," John looked at the woman with soft eyes, "He's just…"

"He's Sherlock," she finished for him, a hand on his arm. "Go and sit down, I'll get the tea. Go on," she coaxed, "Give him a cuddle. He needs a cuddle." She smiled; her were eyes bright but still filled with tears.

John took heed of her words and approached Sherlock, aware of the change in his bearing; Sherlock's hands were fidgeting against the table top and the expression on face was thunderous. Sitting down, John tilted his head slightly, trying to be supportive without crowding him. "You OK?" he asked, eyebrows lurching up. "I'm fine, stop it." Sherlock snapped, turning to his side as Mrs Hudson came over with a smile and placed a tea tray laden with cups, pots and milk before she took the seat opposite John. "Thank you," he broadened his smile to something almost sincere as she handed him one of the tea cups.

They sat in a momentary silence, broken only by the stirring of spoons in cups as sugar and milk were added to taste. It was John who broke the silence first, unable to stand the prickly quiet and niggling fear that Sherlock was back to clinging on to good temper by his fingernails; he had to occupy him somehow. "Thank you for all you did whilst Sherlock was in the hospital; you didn't have to cook for us but it was greatly appreciated."

Screwing up her face, Mrs Hudson shook her head and tutted John away, "Not at all – I wanted to do it, I couldn't have you boys wasting away, could I? I saw that nice Inspector a lot, too. Inspector Lestrade; he visited once or twice to tell me how you were doing and to ask a few questions about something to do with your brother," She looked to Sherlock who managed, whilst completely disinterested – lost in his own mind – to push his face into something of an 'oh yeah, please continue' smile.

"Lestrade's been great," John agreed, sipping his tea. "As has Sherlock's brother."

"He came with men to empty everything from the flat," she spoke up with wide eyes, hands flying expressively. "All smartly dressed, they were; posh suits and shoes nicely polished. Their mums would be proud of them, I expect." She nodded absentmindedly. "Oh, Sherlock…" She reached out her hand to touch his and if she felt the tremor that John could see, she didn't mention it. "I was so worried. When John phoned to tell me and then the Inspector and your brother, the news didn't get any better. I'm so sorry, Sherlock." Tears welled up in her eyes again.

"It's fine," Sherlock squeezed his hand against hers a moment before pulling himself form her grasp. "It's fine, I'm fine, see? I'm absolutely fine." He nodded as if that would make it better; make it true.

"If there's anything you need, if you want me to help with anything, you need only ask." Her face set firm as she looked between John and Sherlock, conviction in her voice.

"We're fine," Sherlock cut in with his voice somewhat firmer.

"We're managing," John smiled, trying to soften the sharpened edge of his words. "Thank you though; you know, you'll have to come by and see the new place. You'd like it, it's like a fairground." He smiled sweetly as Mrs Hudson dabbed her eyes. "Come by one evening, instead of sitting in by yourself. Have dinner with us," he pushed his cheeks up at the light coming back to her eyes.

"I'd like that," She smiled back then looked to Sherlock, "I could bring dessert." She nodded in his direction.

"Lovely," Sherlock forced a smile and sarcasm dripped from his tongue but Mrs Hudson was used to it, ignoring it in the way it was intended and simply return the smile with love. A blanket of quiet fell over the three of them again and John's eyes floated between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, trying to read their faces. Sherlock was lost in his own world, up inside of his head and disappearing off somewhere that John assumed was in a world where nobody was challenging him and life was rosy. Mrs Hudson look forlorn, sad eyed and tired and as she caught John looking he cast her a small smile. She'd noticed the change in Sherlock, John knew, and she didn't like it; he could see the fear she felt behind her eyes.

* * *

**Hella long chapter but I wanted all the new house stuff together.**

**You know what guys, I think I might have this story reposted fully by the end of the weekend which means I can start the new chapters next week!**

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	16. Chapter 16

John woke early on the day of Sherlock's first physical therapy session after a particularly unrestful night. Sherlock's sleeping pattern that had been established at the hospital seemed to disintegrate after their first night in the house; it seemed that returning to Baker Street to see Mrs Hudson had stirred up some memories in Sherlock and reignited the fires of insomnia. He'd refused to allow John to help him into bed when he had finally given in and retired himself, but without Sherlock beside him John worried too much to sleep. He listened as Sherlock made his way around the house, almost doing laps, muttering to himself occasionally before falling so silent that it made John's worry deepen. Somewhere along the lines between three and four am, John had managed to fall asleep whilst Sherlock was still wide awake but he received little rest as the alarm on his phone sounded at seven thirty.

His eyes darted open at the shrill chiming of his phone and the heavy, insomnia-hangover of the day before carried with him into the new morning. He closed his eyes again as he reached out for this phone, quickly shutting off the alarm and let out an exhausted sigh. Turning onto his side, he stared at Sherlock's side of the bed with fuzzy eyes. He hadn't come to bed at all and John didn't know what kind of a state he'd find him in. Rubbing his face with both hands, he threw back the covers and raised to his feet unsteadily, in need of much more sleep and an entire pot of coffee. Scrubbing his mussed hair with one hand and shielding his mouth with the other as he yawned, John pattered up the stairs in search of Sherlock.

He found him where he had expected to, at the table with the laptop. He was wide awake and greeted John with a soft, grateful sigh as the doctor placed a small, none-too-overpowering kiss on the top of his messy curls. Sherlock was comfortable with that, little kisses and little cuddles. It wasn't that he didn't like big, showy relationships; he preferred to keep it simple, to not have to focus too much on what his body wanted – yeah, sex was good, but it was never a prerequisite of their relationship. John knew that, and accepted it. He stayed behind Sherlock, hands on his shoulders, and peeked at the screen.

"What are you doing?" he asked; his was voice sleep-clogged and weak.

"Research," Sherlock replied. "Couldn't sleep so I thought it would be useful." There was an unsure edge to Sherlock's tone, a searching in his voice for reassurance and John did his best to offer it as he peered closer to the screen.

"Catheterisation methods," John read aloud. "Suppose it pays to know what options are available to you." he squeezed gently on Sherlock's shoulder and moved away, giving him the privacy he deserved. "Breakfast?" he called out, heading into the kitchen with slow, dragged steps.

"Can I eat before the hospital?" Sherlock asked back in a raised voice.

"You're going for therapy, Sherlock, not surgery. Of course you can eat. Question is, will you?" John replied whilst stifling a yawn.

"Is there fruit?" Sherlock called out, eyes on the screen as he scanned yet another website.

"Yeah, what do you fancy – grapes, bananas, apples, pears, strawberries which, incidentally, need to be eaten in the next two days, erm…there's melon in here, too." John listed with his head in the fridge.

"No…" Sherlock mused, closing the lid of the laptop down. He reached for the brakes on the chair, pushing them off and steadily eased back from the table, turning with little struggle and went into the kitchen, his bottom lip between his teeth. "Can we just skip this appointment?"

"No." John straightened up at the strength of Sherlock's voice and wasn't surprised to find him in the walkway. "It's important."

"It's Sunday," Sherlock grouched.

"Oh, had you planned on going to church?" John's eyebrows rose considerably. "It's only going to be short, just to meet your physiotherapist, nothing major. It's not going to be as heavy going as future sessions, I guarantee it," he held a banana in one hand and a carton of grapes in the other.

"Seems pointless," Sherlock scrubbed both hands through his hair. "Why exercise my legs?" he slapped his hands down to his thighs, "They won't feel the benefit." Sarcasm was rife in his tone and John did his best to swallow it down.

"Because it's important," He said, simply, placing the items on the counter and walked closer to Sherlock. "And please, stop hitting yourself – you'll bruise."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock veered backwards as John got closer. "And I've got some stuff to do for the website."

John halted as Sherlock left the kitchen, a frown painted on his face, "Stuff like what? Surely you're not planning on working again so soon? Don't you want to wait until after therapy at least?" he trailed helplessly behind the detective.

Sherlock spun around more quickly than John knew he was capable of. "You've taken my independence; you've taken my privacy, my ability to take care of my own body, and my coat. Can you please at least leave me with the ability to do something that doesn't require this broken vessel and let me use my brain without having to linger over my shoulder just in case I struggle?" His eyes were wide, his teeth clamped together. "You're an idiot, I'm not. So let me do something that doesn't require an Idiots Guide alongside it. You are not taking my work away from me John Watson."

"Oh, back to this, are we?" John sighed out, "Your appointment is at ten. It's now almost eight. When you've calmed down and want a hand getting dressed, let me know. Until then, good luck with your brain work and not being an idiot." He pushed away from where he leaned against the door frame and turned back into the kitchen to make himself breakfast. He didn't hear the chair move against the floor so knew that his words had at least hit Sherlock enough to stop him moving closing to the computer, but he hadn't responded either. John moved around the kitchen in silence, making two cups of tea out of habit and setting aside toast for Sherlock as well as himself; he couldn't _not_ do it, it felt petulant. He carried the tea and toast into the dining room and plonked them down onto the table beside Sherlock where the detective sat staring at the open laptop with nothing on the screen. But John still felt insulted by his torrent of abuse and didn't leave his usual extra kiss on Sherlock's crown, instead took himself away to the kitchen again and brought his breakfast with him down to the basement without another word.

Sherlock stared at the plate and mug beside him, his jaw working as he ground his teeth together. He was angry with John for taking over, angry with him for _not _taking over. He was angry with him for stepping in and helping when he didn't need it and angry with him for always being there when he did need him. He was mixed up, both relieved to be able to rely – such as he did – on John and disgusted at the need to do it in the first place. The embarrassment and the humiliation were rife though John continually assured him he shouldn't feel that way. It didn't help; confined to a chair unless lifted out, he sat in his own bodily fluids without the ability to even recognise his bodily needs. He'd never been a person of regret; occasionally he'd berate himself for doing things wrong but he always took it as a learning curve. Right now, though, he found himself wishing things were different, that he could 'do over', travel back in time or take some pill to make it all the way it was again. It wasn't perfect before, not by a long chalk, but he couldn't get past the idea that it was just so much worse now.

In a fit of anger, more at himself than anything, he grasped the cup between the fingers of his left hand and hurled it to the far end of the dining room, watching it hit off the wall, spilling tea up the light paint before smashing and dropping to the floor in a rainstorm of tea and china. His chest heaved as he breathed deeply and fast before grabbing the plate, too, sending it on a flying lesson in much the same manner as the cup, not feeling the same satisfaction when it simple dropped to the floor half way down and rolled on its side, dropping the toast butter-side-down onto the painted wooden floor. He manoeuvred himself back from the table with difficulty, his temper making his judgement worse, and hit the footrest off the leg of the chair beside him with such force that he knocked it down, slamming it to the exposed floorboards with a horrendous bang.

The bang was followed by thundering footsteps as John raced up the stairs in search of Sherlock. "Sherlock? Are you OK?" it went through his mind that the detective may have tipped up, or tried to stand and fallen, and so the relief to wash over his face when he saw Sherlock perfectly "fine" and the dining chair leg-ways up was visible and profound. "Jesus…" he sighed. He stepped into the dining room further and lifted the chair back up, pushing it under the table. He glanced around a moment and noticed the cup and plate. Licking his lips, he looked back at Sherlock's face. "Not hungry?"

"No," Sherlock spat, piqued.

"And the wall is?" he asked, stepped on a trail of cooled tea as he made his way down to the far end of the room, picking up the plate and toast before piling the broken cup onto the plate carefully. "This entire room is going to stick of tea." He grumbled, crouched on his toes, and snapped back up once he was sure he had all the shards of china. "Cut yourself?"

"No,"

"Well that's something." John twisted his left hand awkwardly, a nervous tick of his in some respects; when uncomfortable in situations he had a tendency to twiddle his left wrist and pad his fingers against his thumb. "Can I just ask," he cleared his throat, pursing his lips, "Why did you feel the need introduce the wall to your breakfast?" There was lightness to his tone but he was serious in his expression and Sherlock looked away from his eyes, colour flushing his cheeks in anger. "I get angry too," John went on, "But I don't start throwing things around."

"No, you go for a walk but I can't do that. I can't go to Sarah's place and sleep on the sofa." Sherlock spat angrily.

"No, you can't and you know why? Because you're an antisocial, moody sod who nobody wants to be around," The words were out of John's mouth before he even knew he was thinking them. He sighed noisily then looked Sherlock over again, "You definitely didn't hurt yourself or anything?"

Sherlock shook his head and matched John's sigh. "No, I'm fine."

"Why don't you go and fish your clothes out downstairs, wash up in the bathroom. I'll mop up the tea and come down and give you a hand if you need it." John's voice was even and Sherlock knew that he was hurt. He didn't say anything more as he moved slowly from the dining room to the lift, clattering inside of it as his hands – shaking with anger – moved the chair weakly inside the metal box.

John watched the doors close before he set about cleaning up. He sighed with his movements, feeling overwhelmed by an anger-of-sorts that he'd not felt toward Sherlock for a long time. He assumed it wasn't true anger, more fatigue and grief, bubbling itself to the surface in both of them and tripping from their mouths in snappy, petulant words that weren't meant in the way they appeared. He knew that Sherlock was angry and upset and he was too, he just wished there was some way he could stop it from manifesting in Sherlock the way it did, all vicious tongue and gritted teeth.

It sounded sharp, but he wanted Sherlock to cry, to talk openly when not in a bad mood and work through the issues. Nothing had been addressed, not properly; John didn't know what Sherlock wanted to do in terms of his personal care, if he had any intentions of seriously going back to work or if it was just something he said to piss John off. Mostly, John had no idea what was truly in Sherlock's head – not that he ever had before – and that frightened him. He needed to know what was whizzing through his mind, what was making him angriest and what was making him saddest, so that he could maybe talk it through or put things in place to ease the torment. He was grieving, too; he'd lost part of his life in this, too. He was beginning to fear that Sherlock was simply going to crash further and further into an angry pit of faked adjustment that it would eventually spiral him into a deep depression. John needed help with Sherlock and Sherlock desperately needed help. He just didn't know who could give it and what help, precisely, they needed.

* * *

**You know what guys, I think I might have this story reposted fully by the end of the weekend which means I can start the new chapters next week!**

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	17. Chapter 17

The hospital was quiet but still managed to be somehow considerably busy. Bundled into a corridor that served as a waiting area with plastic chairs lining the walls, John thumbed through a year-old TV magazine as Sherlock fidgeted beside him, his hands fumbling against themselves and tapping into the armrests of his chair. Blindly, John reached over and encased Sherlock's hands in one of his own, tightening under the twitching stopped. "It's going to be fine," he said carefully, his voice in a whisper because it seemed appropriate when in a hospital to whisper.

"I know it's fine." Sherlock snapped before sighing. "I know." He said, more softly.

"They're not going to say anything you don't already know; you're not going to get more bad news." John said without looking up, pulling his hand away from Sherlock began to writhe beneath his hold. "Relax, as much as possible for you without drugs, and stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying," Sherlock snapped again, though there was less venom in his tongue. "I'm just…,"

"You don't want it, I know." John closed the magazine and turned to face Sherlock. "Would you prefer it, I mean find it less embarrassing or whatever, if I didn't come in? Maybe Mrs Hudson would take you to the sessions instead or your brother."

"No," Sherlock gave John a look of ridiculousness. "I just don't want to be here, end of story. No ifs or buts, just not at all."

"If you don't get regular exercise your muscles will waste away, you'll get sores and without regular movement you could get sick. It's important, and it's also important you build up your back and arm strength, too, and your stomach muscles. You need the ability to hold yourself up if you want to stand, Sherlock." John listed carefully, "It'll help with confidence, too; the physical activity will release some hormones around your body that'll help you to look on the brighter side, help you to see the better in your situation, don't interrupt me!" he poked his finger in Sherlock's face as the detective's long jaw dragged down. "The physiotherapist can help with a lot of stuff; help you make decisions about what chairs and equipment is better for you, help you decide when it's right to work and what you're going to be fit to do, help you with the most effective ways of personal care, too." He watched a flush rush Sherlock's cheeks. John sighed and reached out, touching Sherlock's hand subtly, "But today," he promised, "It's going to be simple – ease you in gently, let you get prepared and adjusted."

Sherlock's eyes flicked in their manic fashion as he read John's face, the tiny freckle of his right eye disappearing as his pupils grew large, John wasn't sure if it were the love Sherlock felt for him but rarely showed beginning to brew past the grief, or whether it were the wonder that constantly fluttered through the detective's mind simple expanding into his strange eyes. Whatever it was, it caused John to reach out, his hand touching Sherlock's chin as he moved forwards in a loving gesture of public display like never before to leave a soft kiss against Sherlock's barely parted lips. Sherlock's eyes closed to the closeness, despite his reservations to such acts, and he licked his lips as John pulled away again. His lips parted slightly, about to say in a whisper that he was sorry for the events back at the house, but his chance was lost as a door down the corridor opened and a young man in a white polo-shirt and soft, grey jogger-bottoms peered out with a smile.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he called out, his tone deep and his accent placing him a native of Belfast city. He walked further down the hall to greet John and Sherlock as they both turned to look at him. Reaching the pair, he held out his hand and gave a soft, one-sided smile. "How's it going, I'm Ciaran." He shook Sherlock's hand, then John's.

"John," John rose to his feet and reached to the chair for the handles.

"Ah," Ciaran held out his hand. "You can manage alright?" he asked Sherlock gently.

"Of course," The frown on Sherlock's brow was deep and the scathe in his tone born out of nervousness he wouldn't admit to.

"Grand, would ye be able to bring yourself down here then," he said walking on, back toward the door he'd come through moments before. Reaching it, he held it open and kept his eyes on Sherlock – John right behind – scrutinising how he moved his body and used his wrists to wheel the chair down the corridor and into the large gym at the end. "Good stuff," Ciaran nodded, "C'mon in. John, if you'd like to take a seat, there's chairs against the wall." He said with his back to the pair as they stepped further into the large hall.

The room was vast with a high ceiling that made everything echo. There were large, thin windows against the high walls on one of the four sides whilst the rest was painted a crisp white and covered in various posters and leaflets on the services offered and different muscular and skeletal issues that would lead people to being here. The floor, a school-hall brown, was hard and uninviting but sectioned off in areas. In one corner of the room there were four hospital beds, all made up and piled with cushions and supports. Opposite, there were two, parallel bars, standing at around three-foot high, with blue crash mats either side of them and a padded walk-way up the middle. John's stomach lurched with memories from his student days. There were various sets of weights and so many hoists, frames and different styled wheelchairs that John found himself bewildered by the availability.

Illuminated by overhead fluorescents, the hall felt cold and when Ciaran spoke his voice carried in a dooming fashion. "So," he clapped his hands, the bang resonating. "I'm sure you were told by the hospital when you were released what it is you'll be doing with me?" he folded his arms across his toned chest.

Floating between John and Ciaran, Sherlock shook his head and looked back to the wall of chairs where John had seated himself for his collaboration. "Not to me," Sherlock said. "John?"

"Nothing specific," John spoke up, feeling a little shunned by Ciaran's abrupt (professional?) taking over.

"Well today it's nothing big, I just want to get to know your range of motion, how you are and are not comfortable and discuss plans of action and timetables for your future physio sessions," Ciaran ran a hand across his lightly stubbled cheek. "I guess the main thing is just t'get to know one another," he laughed slightly, a deep but oddly soothing sound. "So…" he sighed out hopefully and reached to a desk shoved into the corner for a brown paper folder, "Sherlock Holmes…" he said quietly, muttering to himself, "Complete paraplegia," he twisted his mouth and looked up at Sherlock, then down to his folder again. "Just for reference, do you have a leg bag or…? Your transition is new, I know, but just so I know when working your legs in future," he looked up and smiled, then looked between John and Sherlock as the detective stayed silent.

John sighed, his body twinging for Sherlock. "Pads right now," he spoke up. "In the process of finding out what's going to be best for him…" he added. John didn't feel the same level of embarrassment at this as Sherlock clearly did but then that was understandable as it wasn't his bodily functions they were discussing. "But it's all so new, like you said," John swallowed uncomfortably, "We'll keep you informed."

"Great," Ciaran nodded, completely unfazed. "OK then, let's get down to business." He threw the folder back down and removed his watch from his wrist. Sherlock exhaled loudly, glancing back at John as Ciaran took the handles of the chair and guided him toward the beds in the corner. John held his breath; this wasn't going to be easy. Sherlock's frown was deep and menacing, the bridge of his nose wrinkled right up, as Ciaran reached to the sides of him to pull the brakes up on the chair. His heavy hand clapped onto Sherlock's shoulder gently, "Want to remove your coat there, buddy." He suggested in his Belfast brawl, smooth and thick. "I'll throw it over the back of the chair here, just don't want you over heating because there'll be a bit of movement." He smirked, watching Sherlock's hands as he unzipped his jacket. Taking a deep breath at the effort, Sherlock leaned forwards enough to pull the thin jacket from behind his back and off of his arms. He handed it off to Ciaran without looking at him and then gripped the armrests of the chair, shifting his bottom forwards minutely.

"Can you shuffle yourself up or do I need to get the hoist?" Ciaran asked smoothly.

"I can…" Sherlock began, looking at the bed. It was a couple of feet off the ground and he knew there was no way he had the strength or height to pull his body up. "…or John could…" he frowned, feeling small and inadequate.

"If you can't manage it yourself, I'll have to use the hoists. It's health and safety," Ciaran's eyes widened slightly. "Sit tight," he gripped Sherlock's shoulder again before walking quickly across the expansive hall and returning pushing a wheeled devise. It was large and looked a little like a banana stand the way it curved over at the top with hooks but attached to those was a hammock-style seat with straps. "Pretty simple," Ciaran explained with his voice raised as he approached, "Basically we can use this to move you from the chair to the bed. We just slip the seat behind you, it's soft material so it's flexible, and we pull the cuffs up under your leg and secure you in and then from the controls…" he stopped beside Sherlock and plugged the machine in beside the bed, "…we can lift you up and place you safely on the bed without hurting you or damaging ourselves."

Sherlock's face was a picture and John winced. "I am not getting in that." His voice came out in a thick growl, despite how small and nervous he felt.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to. I know all this seems a bit daunting, like, but it's part of your life now and part of what you need to maximise your life. If I lift you, I could injure my back and then I have grounds to sue not only you but the hospital and it throw me out of work and, who knows, could land me in the same position as you if the worst came to the worst. I know there's pride, Sherlock, I've been doing this job six years. You're in a position now where you've got to let go of that and stop feeling embarrassed by being a human being and accept the help you're offered." Ciaran's tone was even and friendly but his words were serious and put across as such. It was clear to John – and Sherlock – that he'd take no messing nor would he go easy on Sherlock.

"John can…" Sherlock began weakly.

"I'm afraid not." Ciaran was soft.

"But he's a doctor." Sherlock spat, like a five-year-old attempting to one-up another.

"Not in this hospital. I know this is a bit adjustment for you, Sherlock but if you don't work with me it's only going to be more difficult. So…" he held out both hands, "Can we get on?"

John could see Sherlock's jaw tightening from across the hall and held his breath for the man's response. With a pithy nod, Sherlock looked up at Ciaran. "OK." Sherlock's breaths were deep and quick as Ciaran get a gentle smile and reached up to the canvas seat of the hoist.

"Right we'll just pull this behind you," Ciaran began, reaching behind Sherlock. "Are you able to lift your backside under the strength of your arms?" he asked and Sherlock nodded, weakly and barely raising his body up high enough for Ciaran to quickly drag the leg cuffs beneath him before he dropped back down with a pant and a grunt, his arms giving out under the pressure. "Alright, it's alright, take it easy." Ciaran touched his shoulder, "Get your breath back." He stood before Sherlock a moment before crouching down, attaching the cuffs of the hoist and reaching up to re-join the loops to the top of the machine. "OK? Ready?"

Silently, shakily, Sherlock nodded, his hands in his lap fidgeting wildly.

"It's alright," Ciaran reassured, "Nothing drastic, just up and over, then down onto the bed; over in moments." He patted Sherlock's leg. He nodded in Sherlock's direction before accessing the controls on the machine. With a buzzing, electrical noise the seat of the hoist tightened and Sherlock's face paled as he was slowly lifted from the chair. It really did only take moments, and the process was slow and smooth, but Sherlock's breathing – despite his efforts – was fast and erratic. "Almost there," Ciaran assured over the light buzz of the machine as the Sherlock was lowered down slowly onto the mattress. "Now," Ciaran gave a small smile, turning the machine off and stepping closer to the bed to release Sherlock from the hoist. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

Sherlock breathed through his nose and blinked fiercely, hating himself for being so ridiculously emotional and hating himself for being here at all. It wasn't until he felt hands covering his own that he realised he was gripping tightly to the thighs of his trousers, knuckles white from the effort.

"Sherlock, is everything OK? Do you want some more time to gather yourself?" Ciaran's voice was soothing, soft and slow, and his eyes – though Sherlock felt uncomfortable at their scrutiny – were sincere. "John," he called over his shoulder, "There's a soft-backed chair here beside the bed if you want to come and take a seat?" Preferably, Ciaran would have liked John to stay where he was but he could see in Sherlock's expression that this was going to be nigh on impossible without making it worse.

John was on his feet and at Ciaran's side in seconds, smiling toothlessly as he lowered himself into the seat around the opposite side of Sherlock. "Y'OK?" he asked with his eyebrows arcing up as Sherlock swallowed loudly. He was clearly uncomfortable both at the closeness and the lack of control but nodded in spite of it in John's direction.

"Alright then," Ciaran clapped his palms, "All I want to do is work out where you stop being able to feel your body. Your notes have it down as being T12 L1 SCI - from the pelvis, is this correct?" he looked up questioningly at Sherlock and then flicked his eyes to John.

"Mid-abdomen," John submitted, "Hip bones down, I guess so, yeah."

Ciaran mapped it momentarily on himself and nodded; "OK, great. Let me just lower the bed so it's flat and get you a little more comfortable and I'll do a few quick tests, alright?" He worked quickly and efficiently, helping Sherlock to shuffle forwards just slightly and then lowered the head of the bed, laying the entire table flat before easing Sherlock back onto the pillowless mattress. "OK," Ciaran huffed and vanished from Sherlock's line of sight to the end of the bed.

Ciaran removed Sherlock's shoes quickly and pressed each of his feet flat to his hand. John hadn't gone into such workings and watched Ciaran with interest as he bent up and stretched out Sherlock's legs in turn, feeling beneath them for muscle tone and positioning them in various ways. He bent his right knee right up into a right angle before gently easing it out again and repeating the same on the left. His hands moved gently across Sherlock's thighs and John found himself particularly drawn to the grace and care with which he treated Sherlock. He licked his lips, completely absorbed in the skilful, intricate ways in which Ciaran worked before moved further up Sherlock's body again.

Sherlock lay staring at the high ceiling, mapping it's gentle slope downward and it's skylights, the hanging fluorescent lights and beams across the middle of the roof which told him it was an addition to the original building of the hospital; an extension that was purpose-built but painted and stoned outside to blend with the rest of the hospital. His hands lay fixed to his sides and though his body moved with Ciaran's actions over the next ten minutes or more, he couldn't feel where it was Ciaran's hands were placed until they reached higher up his waist, fingers grazing softly over his shirt just below his tummy-button. "Ow," he muttered, though it didn't hurt, and the sound made John smile.

"That's the spot," he chuckled at Ciaran.

"That's good," Ciaran nodded, his hands gracing up Sherlock's sides a moment. Sherlock reached up, clamping his hands around Ciaran's wrists and pushed against the touch to push him away.

"It's my legs that don't work, not the rest of me. Stop touching me." He tightened his grip until Ciaran's hands pulled away from his sides and then he let go. John reached up in a gentle gesture, his hand touching Sherlock's shoulder supportively, but the detective turned on him. "Stop it! I don't like this, I don't want this! Get me up and let me leave. I want to leave, now!" he pushed his hands down against the mattress, gripping the sides for stability, and made an effortful attempt to bring himself to sitting, his cheeks turning crimson as he fought against the weakness in his arms and back to straighten himself up.

John stood quickly, his arm immediately going around Sherlock's back to help ease him up and kept it there for support. Resigned, Ciaran nodded. "I think that's enough for today," he gave a thoughtful look in their direction before running a hand through his short hair. "I'll send an appointment through the post for next week, give you some time…" he licked his lips and John could tell that, though used to such reactions, Sherlock's manner had disappointed Ciaran a lot. "I'd also like to give you some leaflets for some groups – counselling sessions, meet-ups, that kind of thing." He said, moving to his desk further across the room and coming back instantly with a hand full of leaflets. He handed them to John before turning to Sherlock completely.

"No thank you," Sherlock shook his head, his breath a little ragged at the effort of supporting himself with just John's arm by way of resistance. "I don't want your groups or sessions."

"Sherlock," John said low, looking apologetically at Ciaran.

"That's OK, none of it is mandatory. Just look them over, have a think – talking to people in similar situations can be beneficial." Ciaran reasoned lightly. "Now, just rest back for me," he said, raising the head of the bed again, dismissing Sherlock's tone with apparent ease. "We'll get you back into your chair."

Sherlock tightened his grip on the sides of the bed, "No it's fine; John can help me."

"I'd really rather he didn't, as I said before he isn't a member of staff here and as a health and safety regulation and as best practice for you, it's safer to use the hoist." Ciaran said, his hand coming to rest on Sherlock's leg.

"Do your parents know?" Sherlock asked and John's groan was so loud there was no way he didn't hear it, but he chose to ignore it.

Ciaran frowned, "Do my p…know? Know what?"

"About your marriage to a Catholic girl? Can't be easy for them, good Protestant family from the North of Ireland to see their son marry a girl from the 'wrong side of the tracks'." Sherlock's voice was vicious and spiteful and John could do nothing but support him, knowing no amount of 'Shut up Sherlock' would actually stem his angry flow of words. "Then again, it could be worse, you could tell them you're gay and that would ruin them entirely. But you won't tell them that will you? I don't even think you'd ever admit it to your wife and that's not fair, the sweet girl wants children but you'd rather keep her busy with redecorating the house whilst you have it off with a doctor in the ICU."

"Sherlock!" John growled.

Sherlock snap in anger was instant, "What?"

John tongued his cheek, "You know what! Ciaran, I'm sorry. He's…"

"No…, it's…," Ciaran stood, mouth agape, and blinked frantically. His chin bopped, looking for words that wouldn't form and then snapped his mouth shut.

Rubbing his face quickly with his semi-free hand, John exhaled a deep sigh, "I'm sorry-," he apologised quickly, "He's had a stressful few days and it comes out in torrents of abuse. I'm…really sorry. If you could just, y'know, move his chair around here I'll get him set. Could you lower the bed?" Ciaran licked his lips, about to object, but silently did as John asked, handing him Sherlock's chair before lowering the bed enough to allow John to hook Sherlock under his knees and return him to his chair. He crouched, glaring at Sherlock on his way down, and fixed on his shoes quickly before throwing his jacket toward him angrily. He rose back up and looked once again at Ciaran as apologetically as he could muster. "I'm…I'm sorry, I know it doesn't cut it and I get it. I'm sorry, he's just – he's not a people person."

"No," Ciaran shook his head, all but lost of the ability to regain his composure. "Um – I'll have the appointment to you in the next couple of days." He reached across, shaking John's hand. "Good to meet you both."

John moved Sherlock's chair smoothly past the bed and glanced at Ciaran again. He couldn't say sorry anymore and it wasn't helping anyway. He closed his eyes, unsure what else to do and then nodded uncomfortably at the physiotherapist before walking at something close to a run to leave the gym as quickly as possible.

The gym door slammed closed behind them as it swung back heavily in its cradle and John took the bang as his signal to lose it with Sherlock. Stopping abruptly in the hallway, he fell into one of the plastic chairs that lined the walls and shook his head whilst his tongue awkwardly roamed his cheek again. "That was…just, possibly – no, genuinely – the single, most awful thing I have ever witnessed from you." His frown was deep and Sherlock refused to meet his eyes. "Don't you get that? Don't you have enough humanity in you to know that what you did in there was wrong and childish?" John threw a pointed finger toward the door. "You just demoralised everything about him."

"Don't be dramatic," Sherlock groaned, his eyes cast to the floor.

"Dramatic? No, you're the dramatic one. It's one thing to take your aggravation out on me but to do it to a professional who is giving up their time to help you – that's way out of line Sherlock." John bit his lip to keep from saying anything more. "I just…I don't even know what to say; I don't even get you. Why did you do it?"

"I told you I didn't want to be here," Sherlock finally looked up, teeth gritted in aggression as he shouted back at John, their earlier quiet voices reserved for this area forgotten.

"And so you verbally abuse the therapist? Nice." John laughed sarcastically. "That was just nasty." His sigh blew heavily through his nose, reading Sherlock's face. He was repentant, still seething angry, he wanted to cry but he wouldn't and he was scared, so damned terrified and it was all wrapped up in a bubble of humiliation. John could see it all, even though his teeth were gritted and his voice loud. "I know this isn't easy," John's tone came softer. "I know that a person touching at you isn't something you want and I know everything about this is hard and uncomfortable – I know it. I get it, alright, I know. But that wasn't on; you can't talk to him like that and this morning…you can't talk to me like that either. Talk to me, tell me what you're thinking, what you need and what is going through your head because unlike you I can't read minds."

"I don't want to be here; I want to go home. How's that?" Sherlock's left eyebrow raised a little and John scanned his face.

"I knew that already." He replied. "Sherlock, please; I'm being serious. You have to open up to me, you have to let me in and, you know what he's right; I think meeting and talking with people is what you need, you need to realise that this-," his hands clapped down onto Sherlock's chair, "…isn't a death sentence nor does it have to mean the end of the world."

"It is the end though, isn't it John? I'm not who I was and it's on everybody's lips, it's in everybody's eyes. I see it in your eyes, Mycroft's, Mrs Hudson's and I saw it in Lestrade's at the hospital. I'm not stupid – I don't want your pity, either. I want…" he stopped abruptly and John saw it immediately, the flick of light in his eyes as tears filled up. Sherlock bit his lower lip and John reached out, squeezing Sherlock's hand in his own.

"It's alright," John insisted, "It's OK to be angry and upset, Sherlock. Go on, tell me. What do you want?" "…I don't know," Sherlock admitted, blinking, and the first tear tumbled from his left eye, flicked away by thick lashes. "I just don't want this." Sherlock his hit free hand down onto his thigh, slow thumbs finally getting more and more forceful until John captured Sherlock's pummelling hand with his own. "I don't want it," he looked at John, crying openly despite himself, "I don't want it. I don't want it…" he repeated over and over, leaning forwards until his head rested on John's shoulder, "I don't want it…" he sobbed, "…I don't want it."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders awkwardly and held onto him tightly as his body shook with fierce sobs, heavy and thick tears tumbling onto his shoulder as they fell like rain from Sherlock's eyes against his neck. It was all John could do not to sob along with him but he knew this was important, he knew he had to do this; it had been so long coming.

It was gone one pm when John unlocked the front door, welcoming himself and Sherlock into the bosom of their Lisson Grove home, and both of them were physically and emotionally drained. Sherlock's tears had stopped almost as soon as they'd started, back at the hospital, but they had both felt empty and emotional and had opted for taking a walking before heading back home. They had talked a little more, but Sherlock hadn't been forthcoming with information and John hadn't felt like he should off-load his own worries onto Sherlock. Mostly, then, the chat had been light and general with main focus being on Sherlock's desire to get back into some form or work as quickly as possible.

John had, naturally, tried to dissuade him from this; he'd listed numerous reasons why Sherlock should focus on his health for a while, build up his strength, before committing to returning to work. But the Consulting Detective was adamant; he wanted to return to helping at Scotland Yard as soon as it was viable and he wanted that to be sooner rather than later.

The only positive thing to come out of the fatigue that the day had brought with it was that Sherlock was desperate to sleep when they arrived home. With John's help, he washed and dressed for bed and balled onto the sofa with John in the quiet of their basement living room. The TV was on but muted and the two sat close, the throw-over from the back of the couch thrown over Sherlock, his entire upper-body resting back against John's chest with a cushion at the base of his back as John's legs surrounded his like comfortable, loving supports. The winter weather made the early afternoon dull and cold but the burning fire, beside the television, cast light amber glows around the large room and kept the chill away.

They hadn't sat like this in a long time, not properly, not even before the accident. Sherlock had been too busy, wrapped up in his mind and John had been cramming in as many shifts for Sarah as she could throw at him, wanting to ensure they had a loop of money for support which would allow John to accompany Sherlock to Wexford for a couple of days for a case. Of course, said case was never taken on as time slipped away and, incidentally, so did Sherlock's mobility. But Sherlock liked this, the cuddling; he liked the closeness of John if nobody else. It was slow-paced and intimate without having to strip naked and have sex on the bathroom floor; he had never understood why everybody felt the need to fuck all the time. Love could come in different ways, could be expressed in a hug or a kiss in private, or in a smile, without it having to be public or involve nudity.

"This is…good," Sherlock shuffled his head against John's chest, resting back a little more, his entire back taking up most of John's chest. His voice was small and tired and John knew it was as much a result of the crying as it was genuine fatigue.

"Umm," John nodded, his chin resting on the top of Sherlock's head, eyes on the TV though not paying too much attention. "It is. Missed this," he smirked though Sherlock wasn't able to see his face.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock spoke up and shuffled a little more, attempting to find comfort. He rested his right arm across his waist and placed his left up by his face, using John's tummy as a pillow. "…about this morning and at the hospital,"

Sherlock felt John's sharp inhale as much as he heard it. "Wow, you're apologising." He heard the laugh in his voice and the smile on his lips, too.

"It won't happen again, so savour it." Sherlock lifted up his left hand and slapped it down again, the back of his hand walloping John lightly. "But I am," he softened again, "I know it's as hard on you as me, all of this, and you're not doing what I'm doing-,"

"But I'm not paralysed, Sherlock. I understand where all your anger is coming from don't even think that I don't and I don't judge you for it. I just think you should attempt to channel the feelings in another way and I really wish you'd stop hitting out at yourself." John's voice remained soft, there was no urgency or fighting for the last word, or to be right, it was just talking. Honestly.

"I just get – I don't know, I just get frustrated." Sherlock sighed through his nose and John felt the warm breath through his shirt. The closeness made him aroused, missing being with Sherlock so much, and he thanked God for the cockblock in the form of the pillow. But he didn't and wouldn't act on his feelings, right now it was about loving Sherlock as Sherlock needed. He gave a soft sigh and schooled a smile to his lips as Sherlock craned his neck back to look up at John. "I don't mean it."

"I know," John said softly, kissing Sherlock's head lightly. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?" he said gently, "I can stay here with you or I can let you relax back on your own and go and make some dinner?" He pushed Sherlock's hair from his forehead and placed another gentle kiss on the small frown-lines. "That'd be good," Sherlock nodded, the mention of sleep making his jaw ache, twitch and stretch down in a long, silent yawn. When his teeth chatted closed again, John smiled.

"OK, ease up-," Moving himself slowly, John hoisted his own arms under Sherlock's armpits and pulled him up to sitting. He slipped his own body from beneath him and then pulled Sherlock back into the corner of the sofa a little more, surrounding his head, neck and the side of him with cushions. "Comfy?" he checked, receiving a nod as Sherlock snuggled his head into the couch cushion that had been supporting his back moments ago. "I'll just be upstairs," John nodded over the back of the sofa, toward the stairwell, "Shout up if you need anything or if I don't hear you, ring me," He placed Sherlock's mobile onto the coffee table and then dragged it closer to the sofa so it was within reach of him. "OK?"

"I'll be fine-," Sherlock yawned again, "Go on, go be Fanny Craddock, whoever you feel like…" he smiled with widely stretched cheeks as John slapped across his head with a cushion.

"I'm more Jamie Oliver, thank you." John finally walked from the couch, risking a navel gaze to ensure his arousal wasn't obvious to Sherlock. He thanked God, for the second time, for jeans that fight well.

"Who?" Sherlock called out and John smiled to himself, seeing clearly in his mind the little frown that would appear at the bridge of Sherlock's nose at not understanding the joke.

"Chef. A modern one, Granddad." He called out and stepped onto the bottom step of the stairs. "Now shut up and go to sleep." He smiled to himself again before padding quietly up the stairs, his socked feet silent against the uncarpeted wood, even as he reached the landing.

Standing in the silence, John inhaled a deep breath and blew it out loudly. He rubbed both hands over his face, leaning his head back and stretching out his muscles as though he'd been in a car for hours. His body ached with a combination of the tiredness the day had bought about, both mentally and physically, and the arousal he felt at the closeness yet unyielding distance between him and Sherlock. He relaxed his arms back down, keeping his eyes closed as he let the wall behind him support his weight for just a second. He sighed again, beginning to feel like it was all he did these days, and then kicked himself into action.

He straightened up, rolled his neck and shoulders, and stepped into the kitchen with determination. Over an hour later, he emerged with his t-shirt stained with tomato sauce and his hands feeling raw from the amount of times he'd washed them and washed away dishes to satisfy his need to keep the kitchen spotless as he worked. But his effort paid off and he carried a tray with two plates of homemade lasagne down to the basement, trying not to let the glasses of water perched in the middle spill out onto the food. He glanced down at his feet as he descended the stairs and stepped on silent feet into the basement. "Sherlock," He called out carefully, "…dinner."

"Um-huh," Sherlock's sleepy recognition made John smile – partly because he knew Sherlock had relaxed and actually got some rest and partly because it sounded sweet.

"I made lasagne, from scratch. Proud of me?" John smiled as he spoke and moved around the back of the sofa and into the lounge, placing the tray down onto the table. "Good sleep?" he asked, amused by Sherlock's mussed curls.

"I guess," Sherlock nodded, lay comfortably on his side with his cheeks mushed in a pillow. "Mind if I shower before we eat? I just…I feel…" he shrugged under the throw.

"Of course," John nodded, a little too eagerly. "C'mon…" he dragged the coffee table back and crouched down before Sherlock.

* * *

**Another long chapter (though I know you tend to like them longer like this!) because I wanted the hospital scene all in one go. Nothing much has changed here, just cleaning up of mistakes and HOPEFULLY I got them all!**

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	18. Chapter 18

"Sir," Donovan swung into Lestrade's office, her hair tied back and a handful of papers rustling in her grasp.

"What?" Greg looked up from a stack of files on his desk, pen flicking between his fingers in mind-numbing boredom and fatigue. "I'm busy, Sally. What?"

A slight look of disgruntlement settled on Sally's face before she handed over the sheets, "There's a match on the prints in Northumberland Street," She said slowly as Greg took the papers, "Guess who?"

Greg's eyes flicked over the documents, scanning them quickly for something recognisable or a name in bolded letters, but couldn't find a thing, "Who?" he asked, blinking the exhausted blur from his eyes and looked back up at Sally, "Who?" he repeated more forcefully.

"Sherlock Holmes," She said, eyes wide and manicured brows raised.

Greg frowned and shook his head, "Quit it and just explain what you no, Donovan, I'm too busy to run in your childish circles today."

Closing the office door tightly, Sally invited herself to sit in the chair opposite Greg's desk and took a deep breath, "The prints at the window match Sherlock's. So – he was in the building before we were with him. Breaking and entering, technically, but given the circumstances…" She trailed off. "So basically, we're back to square one; we know nothing other than Freak was there."

"Well he hardly shot himself." Greg leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands across his stubbled cheeks. "I'll ask him about it, about being there. Just…just keep going," he sat straight again before rising to his feet, reaching around the back of his chair for his jacket.

Sally stood up, following Greg as he left the office, "Are you going there now, to his place?"

Lestrade nodded, "I need to ask them a few more questions anyway so I can raise this one with Sherlock while I'm at it."

"I'll come with you," Sally said optimistically but Greg held out his hand, shutting her down.

"I'll handle this one by myself." His eyes were serious and his tone authoritative but Sally was determined if nothing else.

"But, Sir – you're not supposed to address a witness by yourself." She spat protocol in his face with a stubborn jut to her jaw. "You could bring the new girl, of course," she said, slipping her arms into her coat as Greg glared at her.

"This is not the time, Donovan. I mean it, you say nothing. In fact, you don't even breath in Sherlock's direction, you got me?" His eyes widened and fixed intently on her until she held up her hands, nodding her agreement. "I'm serious," he doubled his authority before leading on, hearing Sally in his wake, leaving the office floor with purposeful steps.

Stepping out into the cold, darkening Sunday afternoon, Sally sped her steps up to keep up with Greg's large strides, following him to his car. She climbed in without invitation and fastened her seatbelt. But no matter what Greg's warnings had been inside, she couldn't help her opinions. "It's possible he set something up to hurt us, you know; automatic fire or something. It just went wrong."

Hands on the steering wheel, about to drive off, Greg turned to her with disbelief all over his face. "What?"

"It's possible, he's a freak; we all know he gets off on the chase, on the thrill. It's a plausible explanation." Sally looked on stubbornly. "He could have been working with his brother; the pair of them are as weird as Hell. It could have been something the brother set up to damage Scotland Yard but Freak got caught in the crossfire."

"I really hope you're just thinking aloud and don't actually intend to run with something as ridiculous as that?" Greg's brow knitted close, dark brows meeting. "I know you and he have issues but that's ridiculous, _you're_ ridiculous."

"It's Sherlock Holmes," Sally argued as Greg finally steered the car from his parking space and into the busy streets. "You can't consider anything ridiculous and write it off where he's concerned. He's a psychopath."

"When are you going to give this up?" Greg rolled his eyes, focused on the road almost fully. "The bloke is paralysed. He can't even dress himself. Surely that, if nothing else, requires you to ease off him a bit?" Greg knew that he sounded pitying, condescending and probably hugely patronising at Sherlock's expense but he wanted to stem the flow of Sally's anger before allowing her anywhere near Sherlock and John. "I don't know about you," he said, his voice a little distant as he ensured the road was clear before taking a turning, "…but I think he's been punished enough for whatever he might have done to piss people off in the past. Nobody deserves what he's going through."

"Doesn't mean it's not a possibility," Sally practically sulked. "You can't put anything past him," She insisted moodily.

Greg sighed and shook his head, not dignifying her with an answer to her pettiness. "I meant what I said, you don't say a word to him, got it?" Greg was met with silence and it riled him. "Donovan!"

"I've got it," she replied quickly at the flare of temper from her boss. "I've got it,"

* * *

With his eyes closed, body warm in the heat and head resting back against the wall, Sherlock could almost pretend he wasn't here. All but strapped to the bucket seat in the shower, he basked in a moment of privacy and let the power shower tumble down on his shoulders and chest with hot, heavy droplets and let the high heat attempt to scorch away some of the anguish that was buried deep inside. He knew that John had been somewhat relieved to see him get upset – it had reminded John that some part of Sherlock had remained human despite everything – but he had so much more inside that couldn't even begin to reach the surface that caused a sinking feeling in his chest.

He felt lost, trapped in his own mind whilst is screamed in the loudest of voices as his body to get up and move and yet it disobeyed him. Sherlock had never liked being disobeyed, least of all by something he had had so much control over since his younger years. His body was the one thing he'd always been fully in control of; he could make it stop with heroin, he could make it go with speed, he could make it smaller by not eating and bigger by eating more. He could make it run, make it walk, make it hurt and ease it. He could make it look how people expected it to look and he could make it look how he wanted it to look. He had used it to his advantage in the past, and to the advantage of others. And now, thirty-six and at the height of his abilities and finally beginning to find a place in society where he fit – with John's help – he found himself unable to control what was once so biddable and it was sickening to his core.

He opened his eyes, his breathing becoming a little heavier against the heat, and licked the hot water from his lips, blinking as droplets fell against his face. Gripping the seat with his left hand, he reached up with his right and pushed his hair away from his face, turning slightly to get out of the stream of water for long enough to blink his vision clear and reached up, pulling the showerhead from its nook and turned up the temperature of the water at his shoulder, turning the dial from six to nine. The steam clouded quickly, fogging up the bathroom, and instantly the shower felt hotter. He sucked his bottom lip and held it between his teeth a moment as he gripped the showerhead with both hands and held it two inches above his left thigh.

The searing hot water tumbled down onto his leg in razor-sharp splinters and Sherlock simply watched it before moving the head across to his other thigh. He repeated the process a few times, able to see bight, red marks appearing, and then slowly drew the shower higher. He caught his arm in the jets of water and hissed, dropping the showerhead to the floor at the sudden sting of the heat. The clatter was loud and he knew it would only be a moment or two before John came rushing in. reaching behind him with one hand, the other returning to grip the chair, he turned off the shower and breathed deeply. He glanced back down at his legs, the red marks angry and vibrant, and then rested his head back on the cooling tiles behind him. He couldn't make it hurt anymore, not in all the places he used to as a young man to ease the pressures in his mind, and without that ability the valves in his head tightened.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice sounded wet and far-off and it took a moment for Sherlock to be able to swallow and speak. "I'm fine." He said quickly, "Can you just hand me a towel over?" he reached forwards slightly and held out his hand through a tiny crack in the shower doors. John pushed a thick, white towel into his hand and waited patiently as Sherlock attempted to dry and hide his body.

"Need my help?" John asked carefully, frowning when Sherlock didn't reply immediately. "Sherlock?" he stepped closer to the shower, "…OK?"

"Go away…a minute." Sherlock breathed back unevenly, making John's heart beat a little quicker.

"Are you OK? What's the matter?" he asked, pressing his hand to the fogged up glass.

"No-," Sherlock shouted in a deep voice, looking up at the handprint against the glass. "John, please…" there was a sob to his voice and John couldn't stand it. He gently pushed back the door, needing to know what was wrong, and immediately felt his stomach twinge at what he was greeted with. Sherlock sat staring down at himself, the towel gripped in his left hand and braced against the wall whilst his right held tightly to the chair. His eyes were locked on his genitals as urine flowed down his legs, pooling in a puddle at his feet. His chin was vibrating with humiliation and anger and his nostrils flared as he looked up at John. "I said go away…" he bubbled behind gritted teeth.

Not knowing what else to do, John reached into the shower and took the towel from Sherlock's hands. "It's fine," he said gently, reaching out a hand to Sherlock. He squeezed gently against his shoulder and leaned down to pick up the showerhead, fixing it back into the holder. "Take another shower," he said gently, "Shout me when you're ready." He spoke so calmly that Sherlock couldn't even find it in himself to snap. John watched his face, reading the conflicting emotions through his jutted jaw and wet eyes, and backed out carefully, pushing the doors closed behind him. "Just shout, OK? When you're done, just call me."

Sherlock listened to John's footsteps retreat before reaching behind him to turn down the temperature dial and turn on the shower. Immediately the hot water fell down on him in a cleansing burst and he reached to his side, taking the sponge and shower cream from the lip of the shower, and scrubbed against his body as far as he could reach without fearing he'd lose his balance. He scrubbed and scrubbed, almost taking up the entire bottle of shower cream, until he finally felt clean again. He hadn't managed to wash away the stabbing of humiliation he felt deep in his stomach but he felt outwardly OK again. With even breathing, he called out to John as he reached up to shut off the water.

In typical John fashion, nothing was said and Sherlock thanked him silently for that. He held the towel against his waist in modesty as John brought his chair right up to the shower door with another towel laid out in the seat. With strong arms, he hoisted Sherlock's wet body up without a heave and placed him into the chair gently. "I threw a pair of PJ bottoms on the bed and that blue t-shirt you like. I can't find your dressing gown – Mycroft must have put it away somewhere," John rambled, just for something to say and pushed Sherlock back toward the bed. "There's underwear and a pad, too." He added gently. "I'll help you with the…thing and then, do want a hand drying and dressing or do you want to manage yourself?"

"I can do it. I'll call if you I can't." Sherlock whispered, cheeks a little flushed, not looking up at John as he pushed on the brakes.

John was quiet as he helped Sherlock onto the bed, allowing the detective the privacy of his towel before he helped secure him into the incontinent pants. He worked quickly, doing his best to minimise the amount of time he had to bother Sherlock and helped his to sit back up once he was finished, pulling the chair closer to the bed again so that Sherlock could manoeuvre himself back into it. "OK," John faffed, "I'll go and warm up dinner…it'll only take a couple of minutes. Just…"

"…shout, yeah I know." Sherlock looked up, schooling a smile to push up his cheeks softly. It was sincere, but tiny.

"I'll be just upstairs," John said carefully, walking toward the table in the centre of the lounge to pick up the tray.

"I know," Sherlock nodded, reaching forwards to the bed for his t-shirt and bottoms, pulling them closer along with his underwear. He sat a moment and watched John until he disappeared, listening to the padding of his feet up the stairs and waited for them to move overhead into the kitchen. Once they did, he took a deep breath and pulled on his t-shirt and then stared with tired eyes between his bottoms and his legs. He was determined to do this; he wouldn't rely on John forever.

John cleared his throat as he shuffled into the kitchen, placing the tray down onto the counter. He grabbed one of the plates and placed it into the microwave, setting the timer for three minutes to ensure it was piping hot. As he picked up the glasses, about to swap the water for something fresher, there were three, sharp knocks against the door followed by the ringing of the bell. Setting the tumblers down again, he wiped his hands across his backside and jogged across the hallway to the door, pulling down the latch, and swung the door open.

A frown immediately furrowed his brow but was softened into a look of delighted confusion, "Greg…hi. Sargent Donovan." He pushed his cheeks up into a smile. "Come on, come in…" he urged, letting the officers in from the dark, cold street and pushed the door closed behind them as they stepped into the hallway.

"See what you mean about this place-," Greg glanced around. "Mycroft Holmes can certainly pull some strings," he exhaled a whistle and John smirked.

"Yeah, it's pretty neat." He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. "Is this a social call or…?" he shrugged, "It's just Sherlock's not really…" his tongue lapped over his lips.

"No it's kind of official." Greg coughed lightly. "Sherlock free for a quick chat?"

John blinked a couple of times in confusion before kicking into gear. "Should be," he nodded. "Can you just wait here a minute – he's changing, that's all, I need to…" he pointed to the stairs. "I'll come back for you in just a minute." Greg nodded, freeing John, and the shorter man raced down into the basement. "Sherlock? Are you alright?" John asked calmly.

"…Y-yeah…" Sherlock's breathy reply came slowly, followed by a deep exhale of breath. "I'm…I-I-I'm fine." He breathed quickly through his nose and John crossed the room to meet him. Sherlock was sitting upright on the bed, hands gripping tightly to the sheets for support. He was dressed in his tatty bed t-shirt and only his sanitary underwear. "I d-dropped…" he took a deep breath and John scanned around, noticing Sherlock's pyjama bottoms in a pool on the floor.

"Alright, I got it." he slipped to his knees and lifted the bottoms up, quickly but smoothly pulling them up as high as Sherlock's thighs before taking Sherlock around the chest and lifting him carefully, "Hook your arms," he said softly and waited until Sherlock's long arms were latched around his neck before dropping both of his hands, arms tight against Sherlock for support, and lifted the trousers up over his bottom, resting them loosely on his hips. "I'll add a grabber to the list of things we need from Occupational Health." He huffed out a breath. "OK otherwise?"

Sherlock frowned, "Lestrade's here?"

John crinkled his face and nodded, "Sally Donovan's with him." Sherlock's lips twitched slightly. "Are you going to play nice or shall I make up something and ask Greg to come back on his own tomorrow or something?" He held his hands out, waiting for Sherlock's decision.

"No, it's fine." Sherlock shook his head and reached out his hand, pulling the wheelchair closer to the bed. He locked the brakes on before gripping the armrests carefully. "…I can manage," he looked back at John. "I want to manage."

John nodded, breathing slowly. "OK, I'll…I'll bring them down, if you're sure?"

"I'm sure," Sherlock's tone was a little snappier than John was expecting but put it down to exasperation as he tried to keep his weight on his arms to move himself from the bed to the chair. John was nearly reluctant to leave but knew Sherlock had to do this, he had to be self-sufficient. He nodded, more to himself than anything, and padded back up the stairs, stopping on the top one.

"Sorry, he's all set if you want to come down." He waved at Greg and turned back, feeling a heavy sinking in his stomach as Sally and Greg came down right behind him. "Sherlock?" John called out, stepping down off the last step.

"John…" Sherlock's voice was a little slushed and John frowned, craning his neck around the small divides of the room to find Sherlock. "…c-can, um, can you…" John marched across the room, leaving Sally and Greg loitering with wide eyes at the sofa, both watching the Doctor and the Detective awkwardly. John reached Sherlock just in time as he struggled to hold his weight up, hands still gripping the armrests of the chair, his face crimson with exertion as he fought against himself to stay upright.

"It's alright, I got you…" John crawled across the bed for the best way to get to Sherlock and hooked his arms beneath Sherlock's, taking his weight by pulling him backwards against himself. "Alright, just relax. You're really tense, Sherlock…" his voice was calm and quiet. "It's alright – I've got hold of you, you're not going to fall." It took a moment but Sherlock's upper body relaxed, his shoulders relaxing down from beneath his ears. John held onto him, forgetting the police officers behind him. "OK? I'll sit you forwards but I won't let go, alright? Then I'll help you up." He explained his movements before making them and then slowly edged Sherlock forwards, moving one hand to wrap around his waist at the front as he slid himself off the bed.

"Wait," Sherlock coughed to clear his throat and breathed deeply twice before nodding, letting John continue. He hooked his hands around John's arm and allowed the doctor to lift him up, guiding him efficiently into the wheelchair with minimal fuss.

"OK?" John checked again and watched Sherlock's light nod. He didn't take over any further, letting Sherlock unhook the breaks and move himself from the bedroom toward the lounge, letting him make an entrance to Lestrade and Donovan the way he wanted. Sherlock had to go in there, guns blazing and lips stiff and that's exactly what he did with John two paces behind him.

"Ah, Sally…," he sniffed, drinking in her and Greg's pale expressions at being met by Sherlock's inability, at fully witnessing just how changed he'd become. "The illustrious, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?" there was breathlessness in his tone but he painted a good picture of stability as he glanced up at them both.

"Not a social call, but I have to say this place-," Greg whistled, "…it's like an interior designer threw up on it."

"Business, then?" Sherlock asked, a moment of adrenaline filling his body with the hopes that Greg was coming to him for help, to offer him work. He glanced at John then back at Greg. "Spit it out?"

"You were in the Northumberland Street flat, weren't you?" he said uneasily. It was clear he was uncomfortable; faced with Sherlock's disability on full display like this was forming rocks in the DI's stomach and Sally looked to be experiencing the same, knotting emotions beside him. "Your prints are on the window; those prints are yours."

"Can't be," Sherlock shook his head, "You said they weren't a match for anyone on your records."

"And they weren't, not initally." Greg nodded, his left hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. His eyes couldn't focus on Sherlock's; he felt compelled to flick over his body, over the chair, over the house, over his feet and his hands but he couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes.

"I was arrested for possession when I was twenty-seven, Lestrade." Sherlock blinked furiously. "I'd come up on the system straight away."

Sally sighed, "Well they are definitely yours, I ran the screen myself; your name, your photograph – your fingerprints."

"Are you denying being there?" Greg asked, feeling that approaching it head on with Sherlock was best. He'd always given Sherlock that, at least; honesty and face-to-face, no thrills bluntness.

"No," Sherlock shook his head, hands in his lap twisting, "I was, we were," he nodded back at John and Greg looked over in time to see John's cheeks flush. "About six hours or so before you were with us. Mycroft came to me before he went to you,"

"What were you doing there without our authority? Without our assistance," Greg shook his head, his voice stretching out in annoyance at Sherlock; a paternal annoyance that made him sound like a concerned father over a Detective Inspector who could easily arrest Sherlock for breaking and entering.

"My job," Sherlock spat, reaching down to grip the lips of the wheels of the chair, moving himself in between the sofa and the table for distance between him and the officers.

Greg scrubbed his hands over his face and shook his head again, "With those prints proved to be yours, we have absolutely nothing. Less than nothing," he groaned, "…was there anything else that you've got on this at all? Whether it could help us in finding the shooter or with the original case?"

"Nothing," John spoke up, "Mycroft knew nothing and neither do we. That's why you were brought in, because of the resources it'd open up to help improve our knowledge but still," he shrugged, "They're good and they know it; we have as much chance of finding who shot Sherlock as we do at actually solving this case and in my reckoning that's about a one in a million."

"It's national security I'm worried about," Greg placed both hands on his hips, his coat pushed back. "If we don't catch these bastards it's not just your closure that's impossible, it leaves the world vulnerable. These guys are a terror threat; they've tried it before and they'll try it again."

"I'm not stupid – we know what they are we just don't know who," Sherlock snapped.

Sally laughed through her nose, "And therein lies the problem, doesn't it Freak?" Sherlock glared up at her, his ice-blue eyes darkening and intensifying to a dissatisfied green, his neck craning as he waited for her to continue, to throw another jibe.

"Donovan," Greg held out his hand to her, snapping angrily. "You're absolutely sure you have nothing else on this organisation? No names, no places and no past affiliations?" he looked between John and Sherlock, still unable to meet Sherlock's eyes.

John shook his head and had the grace to look apologetic. "We came up with nothing. I wish we had, I wish I could tell you that there was a stock of information but…," he threw out his empty palms and shrugged his shoulders.

"No," Greg sighed out, "It's fine – I just hoped you'd gotten further along than we had." He dragged one hand through his silver hair. "How're…things?" he asked, visibly growing more awkward. "Coping OK?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied and bunched his cheeks up in a closed-lipped smile. The colour that had flushed his cheeks earlier had all but vanished, leaving him his usual sickly pallor. His breathing was a little unsteady, John could pick it up easily, and he knew that was because of the events of the entire day being capped off by Sally being in his home.

"Tea?" John asked, needing something to say, anything, as a silence fell with prickly spines over the room.

"No, thanks," Greg shook his head, "We have to get back. Talk to your brother," he turned back to Sherlock again, "If there is anything he knows, I need to know it." his eyes, at last, locked to Sherlock's and for a moment they didn't break their stare.

Sherlock blinked, swallowing uncomfortably, and nodded. "I'll ask,"

"I'll see you out," John said softly by way of a quick exit and lead up the stairs, thankful that Greg and Sally followed without another word.

Reaching the hallway, Greg handed Sally the car keys and told her to go on ahead, lagging behind he tapped John's arm. "How is he?"

"Today? A disaster." John nodded for a few moments, "Things are happening, they're being realised; he's…he's learning what he can and can't do, what he does and doesn't have control over. He's realising that until he's strong enough to do this on his own, and probably even when he is, it's not a very dignified situation to be in." John silently hoped Greg got the undertones of what he was saying without having to give much away. He needed Greg's friendship, putting Scotland Yard aside, he needed the companionship of somebody he could trust and open up to that wasn't Sherlock so that he could do his grieving, too.

Greg regarded him a moment, using his thumb to scratch the side of his chin, more as a tick than to satisfy a genuine itch. "Can I help?"

"He won't accept it." John almost smiled.

"But if I can, call me; he – you – can't do this alone." Greg sounded more gentle and caring that John had ever noticed before and, holding out his hand to shake his, he felt as though he could confide in Greg if he needed to.

"I will thanks." John nodded a goodbye, giving a brief wave as Greg slunk out the front door and hopped quickly down the stone steps. John waited until he had left through the garden gate before closing the door. He rested back against it and sighed heavily, feeling the tension ease as the police officers vanished. He edged forwards, calling down the stairs to Sherlock. "Ready for dinner?"

"Sorry," Sherlock called back up. "Tea?"

John smirked; he should have known it was too good to be true that Sherlock had actually been interested in food earlier, or at least he wished he'd pounced on the opportunity to feed him up whilst he was willing. "OK," he called back, walking weakly into the kitchen to prepare tea. He leaned heavily on the counters, his body aching with tiredness, as he made his and Sherlock's tea. He carried the mugs carefully down the stairs with a yawn stretching his jaw, but found himself unable to keep his smile away as his eyes fell on Sherlock as he stepped off the stairs.

Arms shaking, Sherlock had dragged himself to a crouched standing position, his hands wrapped around the armrests of the wheelchair tightly. He was breathing heavily, his cheeks a little red, the air escaping his lips in puckered huffs as he plucked up the courage to allow himself to fall somewhat, landing in a slightly off-centre but otherwise perfect sitting position on the couch. He exhaled in a laboured pattern born out of relief and threw his head back on the sofa, smiling at himself, proud of his achievement. His eyes fell on John, upside down to his thrown-back head, and drank in the sight of his large smile.

"Knew you could do it," John's brows knitted in a loving frown as he leaned down, placing the cups on the coffee table, and then bent at the waist to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "Proud of you," he whispered quietly, planting another kiss, and smiled to himself as Sherlock's arms reached up around his back and pulled him down onto the couch.

"Sit," he ordered.

Scrambling, John made himself comfortable on the sofa before allowing Sherlock to reclaim the position he had taken up earlier than afternoon, his back resting fully against John, swaddled by his legs. "You'll get there – you'll find the strength and you'll get there; dressing, moving, showering…you'll be fine. It's just not an over-night thing." He ran a hand through Sherlock's curls, soft from their shower and still very, slightly damp.

"Yeah I know," he sighed out of contentment, his head resting comfortably on John's ribcage. "Promise me something?"

John's mouth twitched, "Of course."

"Never let Sally Donovan in here again."

John was almost amused for a moment, "I had no choice, it was official business not just a friendly visit." He twisted a particularly buoyant curl around his finger and let out a gentle breath, "Do you think your brother does know more than he's let on?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I hope not. I'll murder him if he does."

* * *

**- My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock woke with a start, his breath hitching in his throat and his eyes wide, and stared above him at the ceiling. Lay on his back, both hands were thrown across his tummy and it rose and fell quickly as his chest started to heave in gulps of air. He was drenched with sweat, his mind reeling with the remains of a dream beginning to fuzz away in the back of his mind. He'd been running from somewhere but he didn't know where, nor could he work out where he was going. He raised his chin, scrubbing his curls into the pillow as his head went back and licked his lips, his mouth feeling thick and chalky. He felt that adrenaline surge caused by fear, but he didn't know why – the dream was a distant memory, plaguing him but containing no facts.

Turning his head, he watched John a moment, attempting to match his breathing to that of the slumbering doctor, but the slow breaths made him feel light headed. He inhaled slowly and let it out in a puff, resetting his breathing pattern and let his eyes close, hoping exhaustion would return. But Sherlock's impatience was greater than his need for sleep and he groaned, flicking his eyes open, his jaw setting firm. He reached down with his hands, one gripping the very edge of the mattress whilst the other balled into the sheet; keeping a tight hold, he held his breath slightly as he dragged his upper body into a sitting position, sighing out his held breath in steps as he adjusted to his new position.

Daring to let go of the mattress, he gripped his right leg underneath his knee and pulled the limb around, then the left, to leave him sitting on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the mattress again tightly, grounding himself, and pushed his weight against his hands to turn his body fully, sitting naturally on the edge of the mattress. He flung his head back, a half-smile pulling his lips to the left as he silently celebrated his victory. He waited a moment, catching his breath, before he reached out and took hold of the armrest of his chair, positioned conveniently beside the bed. It took a few moments of working up to it, but he swung his body in an effortful movement from the mattress, across into the chair, in one, swift, if a little shaky, action.

He glanced at John, thankful he was still sleeping, and reached for the brakes of the chair to free up the wheels. He moved slowly, hoping he wasn't too loud, and moved from his side of the bed into the bathroom. He filled the sink with water, arms stretched out at the taps, washing and brushing his teeth efficiently. He didn't attempt to dress, not sure he could handle being unable to cope and then have to wake John for help. Instead stayed comfortable in his lounge pants and tattered t-shirt, leaving the bathroom with a feeling of independence returning brewing in his stomach; he was determined to work as hard as he needed to on his own to ensure he was exactly the same as before.

He manoeuvred the chair through the open room easily, minding the furniture to avoid any sudden bangs that might disturb John. It was only then he looked at the clock and realised it was still very early, not even five am. He sucked his bottom lip over his teeth with his lower jaw jutting forwards and steered himself into the lift with ease; it wasn't a silent machine by any means but it was quiet enough that it was unlikely to disturb John too much. The metal doors closed behind him, closing him into the lift and rode smoothly up to the next floor. He relished, somewhat, in the independence that the early hour and John's deep sleeping offered him. It took him considerably longer than it would have taken John, but he managed just fine in filling the kettle and making a cup of tea. He would have relished a little longer had he not faced the difficulty of bringing the cup from the kitchen to the dining room. He stared at the mug on the counter, trying to figure out the best way to carry it with him into the other room.

He held it the cup in his left hand, his fingers griping tightly around the handle, and swore at himself for his inability to guide the chair one-handed. He swapped over, taking the cup in his right and attempted to move the chair with his left and threw back his head in frustration as he turned into the side of the counter. Licking his lips through a heavy sigh, Sherlock positioned the cup between his thighs, gripping his legs beneath the knee bend to pull them closer together, locking the cup tightly between the lower end of his thighs. He grinned at himself, pleased with the accomplishment, and reached down either side to straighten the chair again and moved forwards smoothly. The front wheels of the chair bumped ever so slightly over the lip of the kitchen walkway, where the beading of the floor met the that of the hallway, and Sherlock gritted his teeth as the cup bounced in his lap, slipping forwards and spilling the hot liquid over his pyjama clad legs, soaking the seat and dripping to the floor; almost immediately, the cup slipped completely free and crashed onto the floor, shattering dramatically, the noise seeming louder in the otherwise silent house.

In an instant his independence, his silence and his moment to himself was stolen at the shattering of the porcelain as it dropped, rolled and splintered like a firework across the hallway floor, showering what was left of the tea across the floor and up the walls. The settling of the last, rocking piece of crockery was followed instantly by John's hoarse, shouting voice and his heavy, trudging footsteps as he bounded up the stairs, his pyjamas crumpled and his hair disarrayed, with a look of pure fear on his face that only settled when he took in the scene and realised that Sherlock was alright.

"You OK?" John stared at Sherlock a moment, rested on the top of the stairs, hands held out in wonderment as a frown knitted his brows together delicately. Had he not been standing with a prominent morning erection, Sherlock might have found him endearing enough to calm his seething temper but as he was, Sherlock found himself uncomfortable and unsure how to deal with his own mood and John's state.

"Fine," he spat, reaching for the wheels and jar the chair back a couple of inches. "I love sitting in tea-soaked clothes which I'm pretty sure is scolding hot. Best of it is, I could be burning blisters into my legs right now and I can't even feel it. So yeah, John; I'm OK!" his lips were firm in a pout at the scathe in his tone was biting.

John let his head lull back in slight aggravation and then sighed. "C'mon," he stepped forwards, holding on hand out to Sherlock in a gesture he wasn't even sure of the nature of himself. "I'll clean up in a minute; let's make sure you're comfortable first."

"I'm perfectly comfortable. Can't even feel it," Sherlock glared at John and then slapped his palms down onto his thighs. "Not a thing. Nothing. Not a sting or a burn or a bruise. Same as yesterday when I urinated all over myself – didn't feel it then and don't feel this now." His slapping hands balled into their habitual fists and pummelled down against his damp thighs. "Nothing. Hurts. And. I. Can't. Stand. It!" he growled low and that pain – that broken sound of a man once so strong in almost every sense – was what tripped the switch in John's heart.

"I know…" he softened, dropping to his knees in a puddle of tea, the sleepy haze beginning to lift. He grabbed Sherlock's hands in his own by the wrists and locked his fingers around the skinny bones tightly. "…but beating yourself up both physically and metaphorically isn't going to prevent this, Sherlock and I know that you know that. It's a cup – cups break. I drop cups all the time. It happens. I'll clean it up and you'll be fine."

"I don't want you to clean it up," Sherlock roared back, dragging his hands free of John's vice grip. "I don't want you to have to nursemaid my every action. I want to dress myself, to use the toilet myself, to make myself a cup of tea and be able to carry it to whenever I want to go with it. I don't want this, any of this and you don't seem to understand that. Why should I accept something I never even asked for?" his eyes were sharp and painfully keen as they dug into John's brain with their icy stare.

The doctor turned away and rose to his feet, "I didn't ask to be shot but I accepted it. I didn't ask to go to Afghanistan when I joined the army, but I accepted it. I didn't ask Harry to be so insufferably riddled with pain but I accept it and I do my best to change it, to cope with it. I didn't ask my father to die, Sherlock, but it happened and I accept it. There are so many things that happen here, in this world, that people don't ask for, that they don't want, but they have to live with and take it on and learn from it and-and…and just grown a pair of balls and move on, move forwards and live a life different to before, yeah, but still living. You could have died, Sherlock – this could have been all over but it's not. You got a chance, you got the opportunity to keep going; you're mentally fit, you've gained a little, much-needed weight; you're still able to be who you were before, Sherlock. You're making your own barriers here – just because you're in a chair doesn't mean it's all over. Make changes, for God sakes, instead of fighting against those trying to help you with the transition. Especially me because I'm the one baring this, Sherlock – you think I like this, do you actually think it makes me feel good to see you this way? I don't mean in the chair, I mean so destructive towards yourself. God! I swear, if you're serious about not wanting this I'm sure there's tonnes of places you can take yourself to and score enough junk to push into your veins that you die. Feel free; the front door is right there-," John's rant slowed and he threw his arms out toward the front door.

Maybe he meant some of his words, or all of them, but he had never meant to burden them on Sherlock. The anger had gotten too much, the fatigue, the fear and the stress and it all just bubbled over. He felt horrific but he knew he couldn't swallow the torrent back down again and, as he was trying to tell Sherlock to do, he owned that and accepted it. Stiffening his jaw, he locked his shoulders and cocked his head to Sherlock.

"No?" he raised an eyebrow, "You don't want that? You don't want to go out there and end this? You do want to try harder and accept that this is it now and there are some things you'll need more assistance with and others that, with time, you'll learn to do exactly as you did before? Yes? Have we come to this agreement without actually speaking another word?" his hands flew out at his sides, empty palms up. "Sherlock?"

Blinking, Sherlock's pout thickened as he released the bite on his lower lip. "No I don't want that." His shoulders visibly relaxed.

John rubbed the back of his aching neck and sighed, "Go down stairs, get undressed and I'll help you into the shower. I'll just clean this up first."

"I can manage," Sherlock said, turning for the lift. "If I can't, I'll call you but please – give me this? Give the privacy and the time to do this myself?"

John nodded instantly, a little worried about Sherlock's ability to cope just yet but ultimately willing, and smiled a slight twitch of a smile in the right corner of his mouth. "Absolutely."

John waited until Sherlock had vanished and the sound of the lift doors opening on the lower floor indicated his arrival. He crouched down, his toes taking his weight, and gathered up the shards of the cup quickly, mindful of the smaller splinters that seemed to have snowed over the hallway. He wrapped a tea cloth in the kitchen and dropped the pieces into the bin before grabbing the sweeping brush and mop to clean up the floor and skirting boards, beginning to turn a little orange as the tea dried.

He just felt exhausted. He went over and over in his mind about the rant he'd blown in Sherlock's face and dipped in and out of both feeling better for having done it and feeling guilty. He knew that he couldn't coddle Sherlock – he hadn't ever done it before and he wasn't about to start now – but at the same time he knew there was, to some degree, going to be changes in the way he treated them. Realistically, there were things Sherlock needed help with – may always need help with – and things he was probably never going to do again. But he wasn't about to allow the Detective to wallow in that; Sherlock was of a strange mind, he knew, and he was aware that without it being kept up, without him being allowed to push his own limits, his mind would contort and revert to the habits he kept in his younger years and John wanted to prevent that.

He wanted Sherlock to see his own abilities, to embrace his changes and build on them. He could continue to work alongside Lestrade, but it would be in a different manner. John knew that that wasn't enough for Sherlock, but he wanted the man to realise that it was small graces that would stop him from feeling as though his entire life had changed completely.

With Sherlock out of the way for a while, John sat at the dining table, scrolling through Sherlock's laptop. He hadn't updated his blog in a while and felt that now was the time. With a cup of tea at his side and a banana, left untouched, that was beginning to look a bit brown he opened up a clean page on his blog and then stared at it. What could he even say? Tell them about Sherlock's inabilities, tell them about his aggression? There were no cases, there were no achievements in terms of his craft. And then he smile, small but genuine, and left the post untitled as he began to type.

_Lisson Grove is a quiet area. Spaceship houses are plentiful but I think we got the Mothership.  
He's doing OK. Ups and downs, good days and bad days, triumphs and tantrums and that's just me.  
Things are hard to achieve, others are easy.  
Reached a milestone yesterday, though I think – he moved himself from the chair to the sofa without any assistance, without any support from me. I couldn't tell him so but I felt my heart swell at the sight.  
If I had never realised before, I did then just how much his presence in my life means to me. He changed me considerably – when I met him I was so alone and, to this day, I owe him so much and I hope that I can begin to repay that now that it's he who requires the occasional helping hand._

He laughed through his nose and rolled his eyes, quickly going back and deleting a portion to begin again. He wasn't naïve, he knew Sherlock read his blog posts and he knew that there'd be hell to pay if he got too personal, too soppy or too revealing.

_Lisson Grove is a quiet area. Spaceship houses are plentiful but I think we got the Mothership.  
Sherlock is doing well – changes are being made and life is different but he's getting stronger by the minute. Reached a milestone yesterday: moved himself without my help from Baskerville to the sofa – made me realise that, despite the difficulties, things are able to be overcome  
Lestrade and the team at Scotland Yard have taken up the original case, the referred case we were on the night of the shooting, and are doing a good job. Sherlock would disagree, I'm sure, but doesn't he always?_

He smirked at himself, his fingers pointed and moving slowly, and licked his lips as he guided the cursor to the Submit button. Nodding, he tapped the mouse pad gently and posted the short update. He wrapped his hands around his cup of cooling tea and sat back, a yawn stretching his jaw down, and sipped at it quietly. It was almost seven and Sherlock hadn't called out; he'd given him time, space and privacy and now he decided it was time to make sure Sherlock hadn't fallen or drowned himself. Biting the corner of his mouth, he closed the laptop down and set his cup on the table. Padding from the dining room he leaned over the stairway and called down.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Oh – you're done, you OK?" His eyebrows arched pleasantly.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, a little breathless. "Think you…could…c-could you just…help me a minute?"

John sprang into action, cantering down the stairs quickly, "What's up?" His face broadened in a smile at the sight he was met with. Sherlock was wet-headed, fresh from the shower, and perched on the edge of the bed, legs lifeless over the edge. His upper body was covered completely, dressed in a smart powder-blue shirt and he had a pair of boxer shorts on and socks.

"I'm…too…," he breathed out, "My back…" he bit his lip.

"Hurting?"

Sherlock nodded, "I can't…" he gestured to the sanitation pad and his trousers.

"Alright," John slipped across the bed. "Let's get something to support your back. See-," he began, gathering as many pillow and cushions from around him as he could lay his hands onto, "…this is why you shouldn't analyse your Physiotherapist." He smirked, despite his obvious discomfort, Sherlock snorted a little. "Alright," John returned to behind him and stacked the pillows highly and around Sherlock's hips and back. "We'll have to see about getting supports or something. I always assumed you'd great posture and back strength, but it must have been a mirage cause by your enormously long legs!" he put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Ease back…there you go."

Sherlock rested back, his breath hitching a little at the ease that came with not having to support himself, his back muscles calming their spasms as he all but lay down upon the soft supports behind him. John bent forwards and stole a small kiss from Sherlock's slightly parted lips.

"I'll be quick, I promise," he whispered then moved around the bed to quickly finished Sherlock's personal care in silence and with huge respect for his partner. He heard Sherlock's breath catch a couple of times as he worked with gentle hands, knowing it was more embarrassment than anything and apologised every time. True to his word, he had Sherlock dressed in moments and inserted himself beside the detective on the pillow stack once his work was done. "There," he said in a hushed whisper, exhausted from little sleep and content as Sherlock's arms rested down on him.

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"No you're not; you're sorry I woke up and disturbed your quiet-time." John laughed.

"True." Sherlock smiled, tired eyes closing with contentment. "I'm sorry about…the sex." He blurted.

John lifted his head from where it had nestled a little into Sherlock's shoulder and glanced into his mirror-effect eyes. "What?"

"You miss it."

"Of course, but has never factored in hugely and, anyway, I have hands." John blushed at his own candidness. "Don't be sorry."

"…and I'm sorry you feel…like…you said. Upstairs." Sherlock was having a hard time being open about his feelings, about empathising with John, but he was trying.

"I'm tired and moody, don't pay any attention." John dismissed, not wanting to go over it all again. "C'mon, much as I'd love to we can't lay here all day. I think we need to go and talk with your brother."

"No – I…I don't want to go there." Sherlock held John a little tighter.

"Call him then, ask him to come here." John frowned, extracting himself from Sherlock's long arms. "But no, don't call him. We're going there. We're going out – you need it and so do I. I'm going for a shower, I'll be ten…twenty minutes," he licked his lips. "Don't run away."

"That is not even the slightest bit amusing, Doctor Watson." Sherlock grouched, comfortable at last as his back completely calmed but smiled, despite himself, at the mirth on John's face as he disappeared into the bathroom.

* * *

**All the rewriting is done! It's just a case of reposting now, which I am going to do directly!**

-** My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	20. Chapter 20

The eyes were wide, obvious and unrelenting against Sherlock's effort-reddened face as he and John moved through the Diogenes Club in silence. Men stared in wonder, recognising Sherlock and John, silent in their scrutiny as Mycroft appeared to greet them. No words were spoken as Mycroft led them back into an area that would allow them privacy and the opportunity to talk. He didn't know they were coming, or rather he knew but they hadn't informed him. CCTV counted for rather a lot, Sherlock's good grace to telephone did not. Closing the door with an almost inaudible click into its as they reached his office, Mycroft's raised eyebrows betrayed his otherwise calm exterior and John took that as his cue.

"I dragged him here." He spoke up, hands out defensively. "Lestrade was round last night, asking questions about the case – without knowing what they're doing for the original order, we've got no hope in finding out anything about the person who shot Sherlock. We can't tell them anything. We're pretty certain you can't, either, but that's why we're here; we need to be sure you don't know anything else."

"What I know, Doctor Watson, I have already shared." Mycroft replied, hands behind his back. "You should not be here – Sherlock is not strong enough for this kind of traipsing around the city."

"I'm fine." Sherlock bit his tongue.

"You're far from fine, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice rose and John all but jumped at the severity of it. "You were shot in the spine two weeks ago – you haven't yet had a physiotherapy session of value though I fear what little you have had was a disaster. I know you," he added, watching Sherlock's face, "You will not roll over and beg – you will fight tooth and nail with your stubborn, ridiculous pride."

"We're not…" Sherlock began.

"You're here to badger me, to do Detective Inspector Lestrade's work for him. I say this once and once only; there is nothing I can tell you that is any more beneficial than what you already know. You have all the information that I have and if you cannot do solve it, dear brother, I dare say Scotland Yard will have no hopes. If there was nothing else…?"

"Mycroft," John's face crinkled in disgust. "Those bastards have paralysed your brother. Your brother, the little on you grew up with. This guy, right here," he pointed at Sherlock. "He's your flesh and blood. Your brother!" he snapped. "You know more," John's eyebrows arched. "I know you do – you're better than he is and he's a bloody genius." John inhaled sharply and paced behind Sherlock under the Detective's watchful eye.

"You flatter me, Doctor Watson. But flattery will not increase my knowledge," the false smile on Mycroft's face disintegrated rapidly. "I know nothing more than I have already shared. I came to you, Sherlock, because I required your help. I regret that I cannot over anything else – I am aware of what these people are capable of and that it might be them responsible for the shooting – but regret does not form new leads, Doctor Watson. You should know this, being a Military man." He stiffened his jaw. "I intended on calling today," he changed the subject. "The standing frames have arrived and I expect you'll want to utilise them immediately so I'll have them at the house this evening. Whilst on the subject, is there anything else you require?"

"Back brace," John inhaled and opened and closed the fingers of his left hand tensely; he was angry with Mycroft, still certain – though he didn't know why – that there was something more he knew but he couldn't keep it up, not when he had the opportunity to drink the man dry in terms of supporting his brother and enabling him to live as full and easy a life as possible. "A fully-supportive back brace; back supports to add to seats, he needs a chair with a stiffer, more supportive, lower back." He reeled off and then moved closer to Sherlock. "This comes up too high-," he tapped the material that made up the back of Sherlock's chair. "He needs something stiffer, lower, with fixed support. The shooting didn't just damage his lower limbs, Mycroft, he's got back ache, weak muscles – he needs support." Mycroft reached onto his desk and retrieved a pen and embossed notepaper. He made notes quickly, listening as John continued. "He needs equally stiffened back supports for chairs – you can get them anywhere, a little like those massaging things for cars and offices, but with a tougher frame."

Mycroft nodded, "I'll look into it immediately. Is there anything else you require urgently?"

John licked his lips and wracked his brains, trying to thinking of anything they could do to ensure Sherlock's independence in the home. "A grabber; again they're not hard to come by – just to allow him to pick things up he drops, get the post, whatever." John scratched the back of his head and Mycroft nodded, making notes clearly.

"I'll see to it they're acquired as quickly as possible." Mycroft placed the paper and pen back to his desk. Sherlock's mouth bobbed open, John saw it, but it snapped shut just as quickly. Frowning, John was about to ask what was wrong but assumed Sherlock had just decided against it in front of Mycroft so made a mental note to ask him once they left. "I am sorry," Mycroft began again in a silky tone. "I wish I could offer more but I can't."

"Is it Moriarty?" Sherlock blurted. "A year back, that cabbie…he said Moriarty." He frowned, looking up at Mycroft for confirmation.

"Honestly, I don't know. We know nothing, Sherlock, absolutely nothing, hence your involvement in the case." Mycroft rested his backside against the desk in an alarmingly casual manner, in John's opinion.

"How can we know nothing? People always make mistakes, Mycroft, how could there be no mistakes, no slip-ups revealing who they are?" Sherlock snapped, lulling back his head in exasperation. "Until we know who and what we're dealing with, this case is dead in the water. And so is any chance at me looking the person who shot me square in the eye." His hands reached down, grasping the brakes on the wheels to knock them off, and jolted himself backward enough to turn the chair. He didn't allow himself enough room, however, and clattered the footrest noisily off the chair that sat before Mycroft's desk, leaving it locked in and tangled. "Argh!" he growled through gritted teeth, unable to move forwards or backward, truly locked in and on the brink of embarrassing, aggravated tears. "Don't just stand there staring at me!" He yelled, widening John's eyes in shock. "Help me, for God sakes! Move this fu…" he pushed out, long fingers wrapped around the walnut arm of the chair and clattered it side to side, taking chunks out of the leg where it was locked against the metal of his wheelchair, and growled deeply in his chest.

"Sherlock, stop. Stop! Stop it!" John placed his hands over Sherlock's. "I know – you're angry, I know. But it's not the chair's fault, y'know?" his voice was firm but gentle and Mycroft watched, embarrassed and out-of-place, as somebody else tended to his needy brother. "Look, let go and I'll move it." he prised Sherlock's fingers free, the Detective breathing angrily, and lifted the chair up and free of the collision, inspecting the damage. "I would say I'd pay for that, but I'm not going to." He looked at Mycroft with both amusement and sadness in his eyes.

"He-," Mycroft began and cleared the emotion from his throat before it surfaced fully, "…He always did have a temper, didn't you Sherlock?" He knew his façade would not fool his younger brother, but he also knew Sherlock wasn't focusing on him and he could therefore slip emotionally through the cracks this once.

"Take me home." Sherlock planted his hands in his lap and looked up solemnly at John. "Please – just…get me out of here." The broken, defeated tone in his voice struck John and Mycroft instantly and nobody could look Sherlock in the eye.

"Yeah, let's go." John took the handles of the chair and eased Sherlock through the door as Mycroft opened it respectfully. "Sorry Sherlock – this was a bad idea. And I'm warning you," John halted in the hallway, glancing at Mycroft with venom in his eyes, "If you know more and you're protecting your own arse…I'll never forgive you."

Mycroft inhaled quietly. "And I know you to be a man of your word, Doctor Watson but I assure you again – there is nothing more I can offer by way of information. Go," he dismissed the doctor, "Take my brother home; he's not well enough for this yet. I will be by this evening with the equipment." He turned and stepped back into his office, closing the door without another word, leaving no room for conversation at all.

John breathed deep in the fresh, cool air halting his walking a few steps from the Diogenes club. He took a deep breath in and then sighed out, steeling himself. "Y'OK?" he asked uneasily, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He felt the muscles tense under his touch but didn't withdraw his fingers.

"Fine, John." There was a scathe in his tone, a deep, hissing anger that John had come to know well.

Inhaling through his nose, John pursed his lips and then relaxed. "I'm sorry – but Lestrade said…"

"I know what he said, John, I was there. And I know…" a moment of relenting crossed Sherlock's face. "…he knows more,"

"You think he knows who's involved in the organisation?" John frowned, abandoning his station behind Sherlock and walking around to face him. "Or you think he knows who fired the gun?"

Sherlock licked his lips carefully, unfolding his arms from his lap to grip the wheels beside him, "Both?"

The taxi-ride back to Lisson Grove was quiet. Sherlock seemed unable to voice his ideas manically and John dipped off into his own world. They looked like opposite ends of the mantel, like china dogs that face away from one another, with their heads resting against the side of the cab and their hands supporting their chins, elbows resting on the handle of the door. Sherlock had wanted to sit on the seat rather than in his chair in the disabled spot so Baskerville had been folded and laid flat on the floor and it skidded occasionally as the taxi turned corners a little more swiftly than it should.

As the cab halted, John reached down to unhook his belt and pulled his wallet from his coat at the same time. He handed the driver his fare but declined assistance when it was offered. He let himself out of the cab and unfolded the wheelchair on the street, fixing the brakes securely before peering back inside the taxi. Sherlock was staring at him, bottom lip between long, white teeth; his eyes glistened as he tried to pull himself back from the daydream he'd wandered into throughout the journey.

"Shuffle over?" John asked. Sherlock nodded and reached to his belt, long fingers unhooking it and pulling him free robotically. He flattened his palms on the leather seat and in small, slow and effortful movements slid himself across the seat until he was in the seat John had occupied. "Good," John nodded, "That's good. Here-," he reached out, almost back inside the cab completely, and hooked one arm behind Sherlock before he hoisted the other beneath his knees. Not for the first time, he thanked Sherlock's small size as he swung him upward, through the door and into the chair in a quick – if a little clumsy – movement. "You OK?" he checked as Sherlock breathed a little heavily in his seat.

"Fine," Sherlock pushed himself backward as John closed the cab door. "Can you just leave me alone for a bit?" Sherlock asked into the street, watching John frown as he turned to him. "You haven't done anything, you're just…I'm just a bit suffocated. You go home, it's fine, I'm going to go for a w…" his mouth formed the word but the sound didn't come out and John watched the light disappear behind Sherlock's eyes.

Closing his eyes, John steeled himself. "Why don't we both go?"

"No." Sherlock snapped, "You're not my minder and I don't need one. I can do this myself."

"Well do you want to come inside first, freshen up a bit and get something to eat or something-," John shrugged, "Accept the limits on yourself, Sherlock. You're not ready for this, that's one thing I will agree with Mycroft on; you're not strong enough, not yet."

"Go inside, John," Sherlock said with a dead voice, turning the chair. "I need some air."

John shook his head, laughing silently and sarcastically, "Then take a deep breath." He walked around to be alongside Sherlock and walked with him, past the gate to the house and further up the street. "I'm coming with you, wherever you go."

"I don't need babysitting." Sherlock said viciously.

John grabbed the armrest of the chair, halting Sherlock, and knelt before him, inserting himself between Sherlock's knees. "Clearly you do because you're acting like a child. You aren't physically able to do this yourself yet – I don't want to take away your independence, I really don't, but you can't be independent in this way yet Sherlock, you've got to work at it. And, if I'm honest, I don't trust you."

Sherlock's grey eyes bore into the creases on John's milky forehead. "You don't trust me?"

"No." John shook his head, "Because this is a moment of weakness and in times of weakness you do things to yourself."

"This is about drugs again, isn't it?" Sherlock's brows twitched up and John nodded.

"Partly, I suppose. But I don't trust you not to throw yourself into the Themes, either." He licked his bottom lip nervously. "You're self-destructive and leaving you on your own two weeks after being half-robbed of your life would be foolish of me as a friend, as a doctor and…" he heaved a breath out, "…and as your partner."

Sherlock's feline eyes scanned John's face, flicking quickly and menacingly over ever pockmark and creamy wrinkles of his lightly tanned skin. "I don't want to die-," he said plainly, "I just need breathing space. And…I kind of was hoping for a cigarette," he arced his eyebrows and John laughed despite the sop of emotions in his chest.

"Smoking I'll forgive," he smiled at Sherlock, rising to his feet. "But I can't let you go on your own, I'm sorry – I can't."

"I get it," Sherlock looked up at John, watching him stretch out his back. "Together then?" he asked, hands back on the lips of the wheels, "Corner shop," he nodded down the road, "And no comments about the fact that I am going to chain smoke until I vomit."

John shook his head, "Just this once, you have my word." He saluted.

"I don't buy it," Sally slapped the brown, paper file onto Lestrade's desk and rested her hands on her hips with a firm, barbed expression. "There is no way the Freak is in the dark about any of this and even less of a chance is weird brother is; that guy practically is the British Government." Her brows rolled up, "He planned all of this himself, to land the Met and us in particular in trouble. The whole idea of a trafficking gang is bollocks! It's a tall-tale spun by Freak so he could set up the shooting – he was aiming for us."

"Shut up," Greg growled into his hands, rubbing them noisily across his exhausted face. "Just shut up," he glared at her, "The guy is paralysed, Donovan. His life is pretty much over and you think he did it to himself?" he laughed callously.

"The bullets were meant for one of us," Sally insisted. "Me or Peter, or you – or all of us,"

"Me?" Greg jabbed his hands into his own chest, "Sherlock and I go way back; this wasn't meant for me. Six years…" he shook his head, "…he owes me too much, I owe him too much," he licked his bottom lip. "You're being ridiculous; you've no evidence, nothing to go on whatsoever."

"His fingerprints are in the flat, he admitted to being there!" Sally's voice rose. "I'm not letting this go," she turned toward the door to leave Lestrade's office. "I'm not; I know he's involved." She spat, closing the door behind her firmly as he re-joined the rest of the team in the open-plan office.

Greg sat back in his chair, reluctantly contemplating Sally's view. He understood where she was coming from – the only lead they had was that Sherlock was in the flat from where the shots were fired, the flat they were investigating. But he couldn't bring himself to believe her ideas, Sherlock wouldn't be so stupid and as much as he detested Donovan and Anderson, he really had no reason – nor the personality – to set up all of this. They'd joked their entire relationship – such as it was – that nobody could ever really know Sherlock but Greg was sure he did, well sure he knew enough to know that this wasn't something he'd do but at the same time he couldn't get Sally's thoughts to leave him be.

He sat forwards and picked up the phone, reaching into his desk for a small diary and searched out a telephone number. Entering the full code, he held the phone to his ear and sat back with a deep sigh. It took three rings before the call was answered.

"Mr Holmes, hi – it's Detective Inspector Lestrade. I wondered if we could possibly meet for a bit of a chat," he licked his bottom lip, desperate for a cigarette. "As soon as possible, today if that's convenient for you…no, of course. I understand that, Mr Holmes. This isn't just out of police badgering you know? You do understand you and I are working toward a common goal on this one – yes, fine. Four pm, thank you." He all but threw the phone back into its cradle and rose to his feet.

Fuck the patches; fuck the 'doing well'. He needed a cigarette and he was bloody well going for one.

John sat comfortably on the park bench, basking in the brightness of the early winter sun, and found himself mesmerised by the look of contentment on Sherlock's face as he indulged his craving for nicotine. He'd never been a fan of smoking – working in the medical field and having experienced Cancer in the family had added to the personal value he'd already held that it wasn't the best idea to smoke – but he believed that, in some way, the action and the normality of it, the familiarity of it, was cathartic for Sherlock in a time of great change.

Inhaling deeply on the cigarette, Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "What?" he asked, the smoke billowing from his lips and nose.

John shook his head, his smile a little wider, "Nothing," he kind of laughed, "You just...," he waved a hand in Sherlock's direction and then shrugged. "Good?"

Sherlock nodded, "Normal." He replied, confirming John's thoughts. This was Sherlock rebelling against his new life and reverting back to a much older one.

"History," John submitted, aware it was pseudo-romantic in an 'American Movie' kind of way. "Hungry? We could go into the city, eat out? Or Angelo's – he'd like to see you."

Sherlock dropped the butt to the ground and exhaled through pursed lips, "I don't care what Angelo would like."

"Hey, c'mon." John scolded. "He's good to you."

"He believes he's indebted, that's why." Sherlock rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

"He's still good to you." John rolled his eyes, his tongue lapping over his bottom lip. "You're scared," he pointed a finger at Sherlock and watched the detective's expression change – it hardened and his jaw tightened quickly. "You don't want to want to be near where you were shot."

"I'm not frightened of anything," Sherlock spat, hands gripping the wheels of his chair for a quick getaway but John was quicker, he clapped his hand onto the armrests and turned Sherlock around to face him.

"You're scared and I'm glad. Why? Because it's a human reaction and I was beginning to think you were half Terminator."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, his lips pushing a firm pout, "I'm not frightened and I'm certainly not half Terminator; what I am is half broken." He snapped, taking John's wrists in his hands and gripping until the Doctor let go. "But I'm not stupid, I'm not a child and I don't need patronising or stopping from moving. Don't ever do that to me again," he pushed John's arms away.

"God, Sherlock! You're making me dizzy. One minute you're teasing, the next you want to tear out my heart! I don't get it! I don't get it and I can't take it!" John gritted his teeth. "This is killing me too, you know? It's killing me," he hit his fist against his chest, "But I'm trying to make this work, I'm trying to help you and stand back at the same time; I want you…pick a mood. Be angry, be sad or…be hurt; just be anything but this rollercoaster of half-hearted aggression."

John hated this – public displays of dirty laundry – but he couldn't hold back; this morning had opened the lid on a volcano beneath and now he couldn't contain it. Sherlock made to move away again, turning off on the argument, but John wasn't done – not by a long chalk – and he grabbed the handles on Sherlock's chair, spinning him round at the same time.

"You don't get to storm off because I can't. We need to talk, to be honest with each other or we're not going to make it and you're going to end up living with your brother and I know you would much rather it were me seeing you in your birthday suit than him." he gestured crudely. "Sherlock we need to work together, we need to be honest with each other about how were feeling or we're not going to last and you're not going to be able to do this. I can't do this unless you talk to me, openly, rather than being silent one minute and irrational and gobby the next."

Sherlock exhaled loudly, "The only person being gobby right now, Doctor Watson, is you. Get your hands off my chair and let me go."

"No, we're talking about this."

"Fine – but we do it back at the house, not here in public." Sherlock conceded.

Squaring his shoulders, John straightened his back and took his hands off of the chair. "Lead the way." He nodded on.

The house filled with the tension that had blown on the wind back in the park, filling it up again with the same biting discomfort that had flooded in that morning, the moment John closed the front door on the street behind them. Sherlock dragged off his jacket and scarf, handing them off to John in perfect silence, and moved into the dining room whilst John hung their coats. The doctor stiffened his back, his leg beginning to ache in sympathy, and walked with soldier's precision into the dining room. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down as Sherlock moved into the space that had been made at the table with the absence of a chair, stored in the corner of the room instead and piled with a box filled with books.

"Me first," Sherlock said stiffly and John nodded, reclining in the high-backed chair slightly. This was all very rational and far too clinical; it was an argument, one born out of his love for Sherlock, and it was being held in discomfort and with the air of a board meeting at a stretched dining table.

"Go for it," John folded his arms.

"I'm not about to patrol the streets like a disabled hooker looking for a fix. I have been clean for three years and it's going to stay that way. Yes, this is hard and I'm angry and I'm-I'm looking for somebody to blame and I can't find them but I am not so hell-bent on ending my life that I'm about to commit suicide or drug myself into a coma and that you don't trust me on that is frankly offensive because I thought you had this little thing for me called love." Sherlock's face was expressionless and his voice was sombre.

"Of course I love you, it's because of that I don't want to see you go off alone when you're barely fit enough to cope and potentially find yourself, or put yourself, in a position that'll end in something with the ability to be fatal." John argued calmly. He was seething, a raging bull of temper pounding in his stomach, but he wanted to give Sherlock the chance to talk because God knows, he wasn't going to learn how he felt any other way. Sherlock wasn't about to break down and cry and so he was willing to take his openness in whatever way it came; he just couldn't promise he'd change his mind.

"Then trust me," Sherlock said frankly. "When we first met, you trusted me off the bat. You viewed Baker Street with me mere twenty-four hours after we'd met, John. You trusted me without having cause to and yet now, when you know me better than my own brother, you find yourself unable to trust me?"

"It's not that I don't trust you overall; it's that I don't trust you not to be unable to…it's that I don't think you're strong enough to say no to situations you think will rid your mind of the things it's going over right now. If I offered it, I know you'd take it." John said, almost sorry he thought so badly of his lover.

"I wouldn't." Sherlock shook his head, "What I want is space, thinking-space and breathing-space and space to get back a piece of who I used to be. I don't want syringes and teaspoons, John, I want my life back."

And there it was, brutal honesty delivered with a slight raise of his voice and a quirk of his eyebrows that told John all he needed to know. The expression, the very slight twitch in his tone said: You're right, I am afraid, but I'm smothered. I love you but I can't take your presence twenty-four-seven. I'm scared of what's ahead of me because I can't deal with the uncertainty of how my life would be. Right now I feel like I'm floating – I don't know who or what I am and all I want is for you to give me the space, the tiny bit of space, to find out – I promise you with all I can that drugs is not the answer for me. I love you too much.

"I believe you." John said, hoarse. He sat straight and reached across the table, his hand closing around Sherlock's as they lay clasped in front of him, fidgeting on the edge of the dining table. "I'm sorry; I'm sorry if I made you feel patronised, I'm sorry if I made you feel belittled or…like I was taking away your freedom; that's not my goal. But as your friend, as what I am to you and you are to me, I need you to understand that I'm just…I'm scared; I don't know what's ahead for you, where you're going to be in a year's time. I don't know if you'll find the strength but I want you to but until you do, until the ability comes back or grows or…whatever," he shook his head, "Sherlock, I'm going to worry because you can't be the same as before. Like it or not, we've both got to accept that."

"I do." Sherlock pulled his hands from John's in a gentle movement, "…I'm trying to," he added, quieter.

"Like I said before, I agree with your brother, you're not strong enough to go off gallivanting yet. But…" John sighed, trying to give Sherlock a bit of the grasp on independence he needed, "…I know you; I know sitting here cooped up isn't any good for you and neither is having somebody completely adhere to every need you have. But do you understand where I'm coming from, what I mean? I'm just…trying to help."

"I know – but I'm in my thirties, John, and I'm wearing a nappy and sitting in a pushchair and it's…" he licked his lips and took in the slightly taken aback expression on John's face at just how open he was being. "…it's suffocating. It's embarrassing and degrading and…"

"Right then," John clapped his hands, "Let's start now – let's start right now in doing things that will prevent me having to help you out so much; give you back a bit of modesty and privacy; promote independence." He reached across the table for the laptop. "You were reading up about the different methods of catheterisation; allows you to take care of all…that…yourself," he waved his hands in Sherlock's direction, finding being medical man and Sherlock's partner a clash in terms. "You definitely want to go down that route? Does away with the pads and stuff and gives you freedom to be private – the tubing itself can run along your leg if you go with external catheters, and the bag fits to your thigh or your calf..."

There was a slight flush to Sherlock's cheeks when he nodded, "Yes…" came out a little more hoarsely than he'd have intended it to.

"We can order them online, or through the pharmacists in town." He said, tapping slowly on the keys of the laptop into a Google search bar. "The standing frames will be good, help you get a little more height, freedom in that respect, but you're going to have to work hard for it not to be tiring because until you've built up your back strength, it's going to be uncomfortable. If you're going to kick up a fuss with the physiotherapists, I'll do some research, badger your brother for equipment and we can kind of work on it ourselves-,"

"I want that," Sherlock nodded fiercely.

John glanced up, seriousness in his eyes and pointed at Sherlock, "Mess me around and you'll be packed off to an NHS outpatients clinic, you hear me!" Sherlock almost smiled as he nodded, despite himself. "I love you, and I'm sorry…OK? Promise me you'll do this more often? Tell me when I'm smothering, be honest and open?"

"I'll try," Sherlock nodded. "You've got to trust me, though – you have to, John. Because if your trust is gone then everything from before has gone and I can't…" he bit his lips together and John reached out his hand, touching Sherlock's arm.

"I trust you," he nodded as sincerely as he could manage. "I do."

* * *

**My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	21. Chapter 21

Lestrade looked up from his desk to the three, sharp taps against the door and dropped his pen to the file as it was opened before he could call out, revealing Mycroft Holmes in all his three-piece-suited glory. He gave a sarcastically doughy smile and nodded in recognition at the DI. "Detective Inspector, I do believe I am early." He said with his voice velvety smooth.

"Better than late," Greg reclined a little then sat forwards, clasping his fingers, resting his arms on the desk. "Take a seat," he nodded into one of the two chairs before his bog-standard desk. Glancing around Mycroft's face softened as he lowered himself into one of the chairs, resting his umbrella against the seat of the other, "There's no point in backtracking or covering old ground or pandering here, so I'm just going to get straight to the point," Greg sniffed. "I need to know everything, every last bloody detail that you've got on this gang, on Northumberland Street and on your brother."

"As I told Doctor Watson whilst he was doing your…legwork," Mycroft's face took on an expression of disgust at the word before collapsing back into its usual stance, "There is nothing that I know that I have not already shared. Sherlock has it in his mind that the shooting was the work of a James Moriarty but I haven't heard of him and I doubt that you have either; an enemy of my brothers, I shouldn't wonder." He smiled menacingly at the DI. "So again, Detective Inspector, I repeat myself; I know nothing more than what I have already offered."

"No," Greg reclined impatiently, "I don't buy it. You came to us with this; you never come below your own security so there's something you're not telling us. Somebody's involved who could land you in trouble if you don't pass the buck. Whose bacon are you trying to save, your own?"

Mycroft smirked, another menacing smile, and averted his eyes to Greg's shirt, assessing him; "I can assure you, Detective Inspector, I am not endeavouring to save anybody's bacon. I am merely interested in national security, in the sanctity, as it were, of my brother's life." His eyes flicked devilishly back up to Lestrade's face and he smiled all the more deeply. "As I know you are, too. You've started smoking again; the worry must be eating you alive."

Lestrade's frown was deep and obvious and he stared uncertainly at Mycroft, "Don't do that." He warned, "Don't use smoke and mirrors with me, I know your brother; it doesn't work. Just be honest," he threw out his hand, "There's more to this and you're letting on, there's more that you know." He tapped the file on his desk, "So what is it? Who's involved with the drugs trafficking, with the terrorism? Who, in a position of power, is working with or for whoever this gang has that you're trying to protect?" He threw a sarcastic but forceful smile at the Government official. "…Because," he sat forwards, "I know you know."

Mycroft breathed a mirthless laugh through his nose and rose to his feet with dignified grace, "You know, Detective Inspector, absolutely nothing. I would much prefer it, then, if you spent your time trying to learn what you don't know, trying to discover who is responsible for the injuries caused to my brother and trying to solve the crimes you're paid to solve. And I urge you," he leaned over the desk, intimidation dripping from his gaze, "Don't cross me, Mr Lestrade, or it won't just be your job you lose – it'll be your life."

And in an instant, he was straight backed again and offering his sickly-sweet and all-but-sincere smile to Greg with his air of propriety as his umbrella found itself back into the bosom of his palm.

"I'll be in touch, Mr Holmes." Greg rose to his feet, undeterred. "Very soon."

* * *

It was almost six pm when Mycroft got in touch with John via the briefest of telephone calls to let him know he would be with them shortly and that he had the standing frame – and another, identical one to be brought to Bart's whenever Sherlock desired – which was set to go and being delivered by one of his oh-so-helpful employees. He and Sherlock were comfortable and close on the sofa in the basement, Sherlock's nose stuck in a book he'd read a hundred times before whilst John flicked through the channels on the TV, the volume turned down low. Sherlock's weight, as was becoming almost customary, was resting back against John's chest as though John were his support system. It was intimate without sex, close without hands and beautiful without nudity.

"We should…," John began, stopping to yawn with his chin drawn down. "…sorry." He smiled and shook his head. "We should probably shift and go upstairs, make tea or something or dinner or…what?" He paused, feeling Sherlock's deep chuckle reverberate through his chest.

"It's Mycroft, not the Queen." Sherlock replied stoically.

"And he's shelled out thousands for your comfort," John prodded Sherlock's shoulder. "I gave him lists of stuff and, so far, he's gone for the top end of everything. If that's anything to go by, you should probably expect this standing frame to allow you to pirouette like a ballerina." Sherlock's chuckle, deep and manly, vibrated again and John couldn't help but join in with it. "I'm serious!" he added, smiling.

"It'll make all the difference, won't it, being able to stand?" Sherlock asked, holding his book down against his legs and tilting his head back and to the side to catch John's eye.

"To your health?" he asked and Sherlock nodded, eyes blinking closed slowly. completely comfortable, and licked his pink tongue across his dry lips. "Definitely; it'll help strengthen muscles, help reduce those spasms and the back pain. It'll improve your digestion, bowel movements…" he smiled as Sherlock grimaced. "I'm serious; you think the suppositories are bad right now, yeah? Well things will ease when your digestion is better and it'll get better if you're able to support and stand for an hour or so each day."

"And we can do this right away?" Sherlock asked, "Standing?"

"No, I mean, by all means size it out but it's going to hurt so you'll be exhausted after a few minutes until you build up your stamina and strength." John explained and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, resting clasped in the region of his tummy button when he saw his face fall. "I know, but if you want the independence, the frames will offer it but in order to get it, you've got to work for it. We'll talk with Mycroft when he gets here, butter him up for more equipment and I'll call a friend of mine for some re-learning, if you're adamant you don't want NHS physiotherapists, you've got to let me do it and you've got to work at it; so slacking." He warned, half serious.

"I just want the height. Being short has so many disadvantages, but I don't have to tell you that…" Sherlock grinned at the mock look of disgust that claimed John's expression.

"Kiss me," John demanded, looking down on Sherlock's taught jaw where his head was thrown back.

"You kiss me, you're the able-bodied one." Sherlock's tone was serious, always serious, but serious in a way that John knew it was clouded with immense love, even if the detective couldn't work it out. Lowering his head, John pushed his lips softly against the full pout of Sherlock's mouth. Despite wanting to, despite needing to, John didn't deepen the kiss. He pulled back, a smile stretching his already thin lips, and ignored the persistent throbbing in his groin.

Rows were going to happen and they were going to be heated. He was going to piss Sherlock off and the detective was definitely going to get to him. They were going to disagree, going to fight, going to reach times when they all but hated one another and couldn't stand to be in the same room as each other. John knew all of this and he took it, square on the chin, because they were completely out-weighed by the moments like this; the hugs, the kisses, the closeness, the jokes and the gentle atmosphere. He could take the rough, as much as you'd throw at him, so long as he got Sherlock, pliant in his arms like this, at the end of the day and a niggling of knowledge in the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, they could get through this together.

Mycroft, as ever, arrived just as John reached the top of the stairs, having left Sherlock in his comfortable spot with his book on the sofa in favour of making tea himself. He jogged across the hallway and pulled open the door, certain Mycroft could read his expressions and his body instantly but genuinely unable to find it in him to care. "Evening," he said, stepping aside to allow the tall, slim man in, followed by another two carrying Sherlock's newly acquired standing frame. "Sherlock!" John called out, his eyes bright with excitement, "Come up here," his tone bounced excitedly, "Your brother's here, got a bit of kit you're going to be happy with." He licked his lips as Mycroft directed his assistants into the dining room where, huffing, they placed the alien machine down effortlessly and then left without a word.

John's face gaped as Mycroft walked around the large, Sci-Fi movie-esque contraption in the centre of the dining room. It looked truly alien with its three-part seat, wheels, table, large framework and buttons and straps, all brought together in a light grey colour that, John was sure, was truly Star Wars inspired. "This is…" John began, awed. "Above and beyond,"

"I ensured I was able to get the best of the best. The mechanical device here," Mycroft pointed to a small box beside the seat, "Allows it to go from chair to supportive standing, locking into place, and the cogs on the front here control the lower wheels for movement whilst upright, allowing mobility as well as promoting good health and independence." He reeled, text-book perfect. "It accommodates his height, fully supports his legs and back without impeding upper-quadrant movement." Mycroft cleared his throat, "The table is detachable but in reality is perfect for eating, working…" he glanced at Sherlock as he came out of the lift, moving slowly with wide eyes through the archway into the dining room.

John smiled as Sherlock entered; glad he'd not rushed down to help him into his chair for the look of satisfaction on the detective's face at having accomplished that feat himself. And, for once, the detective found himself without criticism for his older brother, despite their tetchy conversation that morning. He nodded with gratitude and even chanced something of a smile, despite himself, unable to contain his excitement completely. "Th…um, thank you." He licked his bottom lip.

"You are most welcome," Mycroft replied. John's assuming was that the sarcasm in the older man's tone was intended but Sherlock seemed to take the words as just that, not even detecting the tone of his voice.

"Really Mycroft, this is amazing. It's going to be so beneficial. Given the amount of support he can use it for very short bursts right away but I mean short bursts," John looked gravely at Sherlock, "Five minutes, ten at the most, until you build up your strength."

"Now?" Sherlock looked at John with almost infantile innocence. "Just a few minutes, John, please?" he said a little severely, "Please?" his eyes were wide, hoping he wouldn't have to remind John of their conversations today.

John breathed out carefully and nodded, "Go for it. Can you get yourself from the chair to the stander or do you want my help."

"Let him try," Mycroft spoke up with firmness in his voice that, regardless of his want, made John comply. Mycroft, in that moment, saw his brother as an infant, small and needy, learning to be a big boy, learning to be like him. He watched him with nostalgia bubbling in his throat uncomfortably, his eyes on the shaking in his arms and the determination on his straining face.

John hovered closely, hands poised and flicking with nervousness, as Sherlock pulled himself from the chair by baring his weight on his arms, attempting to throttle himself across to the waiting seat of the stander. He watched the flush of Sherlock's cheeks, the way he tired so quickly, and prayed for a moment's grace to allow him this. It took a few attempts and a lot of huffing, but Sherlock swung his hips from Baskerville to the stander with one, swift movement and stilled a moment to catch his breath, not meeting John or Mycroft's eyes, before cupping his legs beneath the knees, one at a time, and positioning his feet into the designated stands of the frame.

"That's good," John praised carefully, trying not to be patronising but not knowing how else to say "I'm so fucking proud of you and I love you" without embarrassing himself, Sherlock and Mycroft in one go. "That's really good. Sit a minute, get your breath back, and then go for standing." He smiled, his hand a soothing weight on Sherlock's shoulder, as the detective nodded, the blush in his cheeks fading slowly. The three fell into silence, neither sure what the other was thinking but all working toward something of the same lines: Please God let this go well. John breathed deeply as Sherlock nodded his satisfaction. "Easy," John said carefully as Sherlock gripped the controls with one hand and pushed his thumb down.

The movement was slowly and gave off a motorised buzz as the chair slowly began to straighten and Sherlock's legs were pulled straight, his hips set aligned and his back muscled stretched as his shoulders were pulled level with Mycroft's standing almost directly at his side. His face was a little pale, his lip captured between his teeth and his knuckles white as he gripped the sides of the chair but there was a rush in his ears and a quick beat to his heart that was both of fear and of excitement.

"You OK?" John asked carefully, his hand on Sherlock's arm as the chair came to its fully upright position. There was a slight tremor beneath Sherlock's skin and nervousness on his face as he glanced at John and nodded. John checked Sherlock out, ensuring his torso came to rest on the support that hung just below the table and that his body was fully supported, his legs held strong. "Hurt?" he asked carefully.

"Little," Sherlock nodded, "My…back…" there was breathlessness in his words and it struck Mycroft and John at the vulnerability it carried.

"You're doing great, can you move OK?" John coaxed, keeping his hand on Sherlock's arm, "Like, can you turn your upper body?"

Inhaling, Sherlock turned slowly and minutely toward Mycroft before his face betrayed him, displaying extreme discomfort. "I feel a little…," he gestured his hands inarticulately, looking faint.

"Alright, let's get you back down." John was soothing, medical-man extraordinaire, and pushed in the button so Sherlock could concentrate on his breathing. It took more slow moments, but Sherlock was back in a sitting position, finger gripping the sides of the standers chair tightly. "You did really well, it's OK. It's going to take some getting used to. But it's amazing, Mycroft, thank you." John's hand came back to rest on Sherlock's shoulder softly. "Here," he bent at the waist and hoisted Sherlock up; helping him back into his wheelchair in a swift, smooth motion, John smiled reassuringly, "We'll work on it, you'll get there."

"I don't want to get there." Sherlock snapped, "I want to just…do it, to just be able to stand! I've been standing my entire life, why is it so bloody hard now?" he glared at John, "You're the doctor, pray tell, why the hell is it so nauseatingly difficult to do something as simple as standing on my own two feet?"

"I know you're upset," John began.

"No, you don't know, John. The two of you think that in buying all this fancy stuff it's going to make it better? It's not! Nothing is going to make this better," he clapped his hands down on his thighs in frustration, "I cannot walk and no amount of being understanding or filling the house with gadgets is going to change that. I want to try, John, I want to pretend like being disabled gives me some sense of enlightenment and I'm a wonderfully upbeat person for the changes it's made in my life but I can't because I'm not. This is painful, it hurts both physically and mentally and I can't take it; I told you this earlier John, you know what I'm talking about. This isn't me." He waved his hands at his chair then at the stander, "This, entire…the stuff, all the acceptance and adaptation, it's not me. I don't want it; I don't want any of it. I don't…"

Mycroft inhaled through his nose sharply and clasped his hands behind his back, "Sherlock," he began gently.

"No," Sherlock snapped angrily, "No don't do that, don't cut across me or scold me or even dare to think that you doing all of this makes things better. I appreciate it, I do, but it's not changing anything. Maybe it makes you feel better to spend thousands on items to maximise my life but it doesn't make me feel any better. Anybody would think you were feeling guilty about something," he dug his tongue into his cheek and John cringed.

"I am," Mycroft nodded. "I gave you this case, Sherlock; you were there because of me. It is because of me that you were put into the dangers you were and wound up in this position. I am not a sentimental person, Sherlock, but you are my brother and I would never have wanted this for you and nor do I want to see you struggle following it. Accept my help, John's too, and accept your new life or you are going to spiral."

"Oh here we go, are you two in cahoots? Do not lecture me about drugs, you got it?" he pointed a finger at Mycroft before reaching down with both hands, turning the chair quickly, "I'm not an addict, I'm not taking anything and I haven't for years. Don't try…; get out of my way." Sherlock halted before Mycroft, standing in the doorway.

"Talk about this," Mycroft said carefully. "You're angry at me for not being able to give you more information, you're angry at me for trying to help you, you're angry at me for not being able to fix you and mostly, you're angry at yourself because you don't have any idea about anything right now and you're afraid. Say it, admit it to me and you are free to go."

"I am not afraid," Sherlock spat through gritted teeth. "Move."

John watched, arms across his chest uncomfortably, both wanting to intervene and glad that Sherlock was, once again, getting angry and display emotion but he wishes he could go back to twenty minutes ago, to sitting on the sofa with cuddles and calm. "Mycroft, maybe just let him…,"

On John's say-so, Mycroft stepped aside in one, long stride, clearing the walkway immediately. Sherlock powered through the gap and into the kitchen, needing to go anywhere to get air, to get space, to breathe deeply enough away from prying eyes that might see in his face that he desperately wanted to cry.

"This is difficult for him, I know, but letting him off in the face of a challenge is only instilling into him that he doesn't have to face what's difficult." Mycroft spoke in a quiet voice at John.

"And winding him up after the day he's had is useless. We made headway when we got back tonight – not about the case, but about his life. He wants changes, he's trying to get back some of the independence he lost and strike a balance between asking for help and coping where he can. He's been better all evening, feeling brighter knowing he could, in the future, be stronger and then he got his hopes up thinking that standing up this evening would be easier than it was. It hurts him, his muscles cramp up and tighten and he can't stand it; he's weak and tired and it wasn't what he expected and now he's back down the low mood he was in this morning. Challenging him over it isn't going to help; so in this case, you are much better off letting him go and calm down than fighting with him and making him feel even worse." John spoke so calmly and professionally, Mycroft barely detected the amount of love and emotion fizzing beneath his surface.

Mycroft looked with serious eyes at John and tightened his jaw, John didn't miss it and tried to placate.

"I know you're trying to put things right, trying to help but I live with him, Mycroft and I've learned to read him, learned to know when to strike and when not to. Today's just isn't a good day, especially not this evening, especially not after that," he threw his hand toward the stander. "He's grateful, I know he is and you do too, he just wants it to be easy and it's not and that's why he's angry, that's why he's upset. Don't rake up anything else and don't force him to talk to you about it. He'll calm down." He nodded.

Mycroft nodded and cleared his throat, "Yes. Well. I should go; I'll look into the items you asked for earlier, was there anything else you needed to add to the list?"

"Cup holder," John nodded, "Something to put on his chair. He threw tea all over the place this morning, that's all." He pulled down the corners of his mouth and arched his eyebrows up and was glad that Mycroft didn't push it. "Thank you, I mean it; we have our differences and still do, there are things we're never going to agree on and things you've done I…," he trailed off, "I'm thankful for everything you're doing to help him, that you're providing him with all he needs. It's important and it's appreciated."

"Let me know if I can do more," Mycroft said, sincerely as he preceded John out of the dining room, back into the hall. "I'll go, give him the space he clearly wants, but if there is anything I can do don't hesitate to get in touch. And I want it known again, Doctor Watson, there really isn't anything more that I know."

Though he wanted to, John couldn't bring himself to fully have faith in Mycroft's conviction but his words were sincerely delivered and John appreciated it, somehow. He nodded, wordlessly, and followed Mycroft to the door, holding it open and lingered on the step as the older man descended the stairs into the street; his car was waiting right outside the gate, and he disappeared into the night without a muttered goodbye. John pushed the door closed and fed the bolt across before walking on unsure feet into the kitchen.

Sherlock was loitering in the corner like a child who'd been told off and didn't see John approach but he heard him. "Don't say anything," he said his voice stiff as he turned his chair to face John. "Let me just be in a bad mood?"

"Fine with me," John held up his hands, "I was rather hoping you wouldn't be because I fancy a shag but…," he shrugged.

"Don't flip this," Sherlock frowned, "I'm in a mood, don't start being cute with me because it's not going to work."

"Fair enough," John smirked at himself and turned to the kettle. "Tea?"

"Coffee," Sherlock licked his lips, "Black, two sugars – I'll be in the dining room."

"Whilst you're in there, get on Google-," John called as Sherlock steered out of the kitchen.

"Why?"

"…look up 'ways to kick a moody cripple up the arse'." John called back watching and waiting in his own mirth for Sherlock's bite back.

"Oh yeah," Sherlock's voice dripped sarcasm and, despite his claims to want to stay in his bad mood, it bubbled with moderate humour. "That'll be right near the pages on how Doctor Watson isn't funny in the slightest."

* * *

-** My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	22. Chapter 22

(Timeframe – about a week on)

"Sherlock," John padded on bare feet down the stairs, arriving with a childish jump off of the last step, making Sherlock look up from his position on the sofa, surrounded by ominous looking folders of cold-cases he'd bugged Lestrade for. His curly hair was mussed, pushed out of his face and he peered over his shoulder and laid his head on the back of the couch to get a better view of John. "Post," he declared, holding out a white NHS envelope to Sherlock, "Probably your appointment with the consultant, or the urologist."

Reaching back, Sherlock took the letter and opened it out; popping the pen he'd been scribbling notes with into his mouth, he scanned the text. "Urologist." He garbled over the biro and John nodded.

"Can discuss better personal care plans," he smiled.

"Friday," Sherlock said, waving the letter in John's face. "Doctor David Uttari." He read out and dragged the pen from his mouth, "Sounds like a video game." He smirked as he folded the letter back into the envelope and dropped it onto the coffee table for safe keeping.

John laughed, falling into the sofa beside Sherlock, "Does a bit. I was going to take a shift on Friday to give me Thursday off, what with Mrs Hudson coming over, but I can take one on Saturday for the Walk In clinic, if you're going to be OK with that?" John scratched the back of his head.

"Work when you like, doesn't bother me, as long as you are here Thursday. You invited Mrs Hudson round so you can do the cooking." Sherlock pointed his pen at John. "Whilst you're here-," he reached for a document, "Remember this being on the news?" he handed the file to John who scanned through it quickly. The case of a little boy abducted and murdered back in early 2007.

"I was in Afghanistan." John shook his head, scanning quickly. "No clues?"

Sherlock tried to read John's expression when he mentioned Afghanistan but he couldn't fathom whether he was fuelled with nostalgia in the worst way or disgusted by what his eyes were skimming over. "I think it was the Dad." Sherlock mused, taking it back.

"The Dad?" John's eyes rolled, "This is like Cluedo all over again, isn't it?" he poked Sherlock's thigh and let a laugh escape breathily through his nose. "Are you getting yourself dressed today or what?"

"Are you?" Sherlock countered, drinking in the rather adorable sight of John in his grey bed-joggers and a ragged light-blue, long-sleeved top.

"I have a shift in about an hour, so yeah it's kind of a given that I shall be adorning clothes." He nodded mockingly in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock's face fell, "Oh – I forgot you were in today."

"It's on the fridge," John pointed up to the ceiling, "On the whiteboard you made me buy." He smiled, "Not up to spending the day on your own? I can call Mrs Hudson; she'll come over and treat you like a baby if you'd like." His eyes danced.

"I've spent the last few days on my own whilst you've been off gallivanting and I have been doing impeccably thank you very much; dressing and feeding myself, and everything." There was sarcasm rife in Sherlock's tone but it was comical. "I just thought you were having today at home, that's all. I'd gotten use to your presence I guess and now it's gone again..."

"You wanted normality, Sherlock."

"I know I did," he looked at John, his cases abandoned, "I do." He nodded, "I just…"

"You miss me?" John smiled, scrunching up his nose and grinning like the All American teenage girl.

Sherlock nodded, "A bit, I suppose."

"I could call Sarah, tell her you've an appointment or something and we could spend the day together, but then when it turns up you have a real appointment – like on Friday – she's less inclined to be so lenient." John reached across and rested his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Kiss me," he said slowly and edged forwards, pushing his lips to the soft cushion of Sherlock's. It surprised him, somewhat, when Sherlock's tongue pushed into his mouth – it usually took John to instigate such affection – but he didn't fight it, opening his mouth wider to allow Sherlock the familiar access. "This…" he pulled back a moment later, "Is blackmail."

"Is it working?" Sherlock asked with a hopeful frown playful on his brow.

"Very nearly," John kissed Sherlock quickly and stood up. "I'm getting a quick shower and then I have to go. Anything you need me to do before hand?"

"No, if there's anything I need I can do it myself." Sherlock warned him and looked almost sad as he rose from the couch. "Go on-," he conceded, "Make yourself pretty for Sarah."

John held his hands in an incredibly rude gesture as he disappeared into the bathroom. Sherlock found a smirk at the joke but it vanished quickly. He'd been self-sufficient before the accident and had been gaining it back in the past few days and was loving the freedom, the independence that was once again his, but he couldn't lie; he'd grown used to John's constant presence and bug him as it had to be smothered, it hurt him to be left with so much time on his hands with John's absence, too.

* * *

"No really," John sipped his tea and smiled at Alice, the new practice receptionist as they sat together in the break room, "He just stood there looking and was able to give her entire life story, affairs and everything." He sniffed, shaking his head.

Alice's mouth drew down in shock, "Psychic?"

"Sherlock? No way. He's too socially inept for that. It's just…observation; he can just see people." He drained the remainder of his tea and swilled the cup under the small sink, "He read me the moment we met and all by the tan on my skin and my mobile phone."

"And it was love at first sight?" Alice asked, blinking slowly, awed.

"Sort of," John dared blush.

"He sounds wonderful-," Alice cooed and the snort from Sarah as she entered the room made John chuckle.

"Sherlock Holmes and wonderful in the same sentence, that's a new one on me. He's dominant, rude, obtrusive, commanding, selfish, secretive and eccentric but he's essentially the total opposite of our dear John here that he completes him in the most perfect of ways," she gave a giggle and nudged John gently. "No – he's nice; complicated, but nice." Sarah folded her arms across her chest. "How is he?" she sobered immediately and looked to John with her sympathetic eyes and pale, freckled face schooled into half concern and half love.

"Good," John nodded. "Stronger – managed a full ten minutes with the stander without discomfort, so that's good. He's flying – working for Scotland Yard on some older cases, even cooked last night, albeit slop…" he smiled and Sarah echoed it warmly. "There're less bad days, he seems to be on the brighter side of acceptance which is a blessing."

"Give him my love? He'll probably throw it back at me but give it anyway?" Sarah touched John's arm lightly.

"Of course." He nodded, "Thank you." He straightened his cardigan before walking away with a smile for both women, heading back toward his room.

He felt more human being back at work – it gave him back a sense of John Watson, MD and not just John Watson, Sherlock's fella. He felt useful again to others besides Sherlock, he felt like he was 'earning his keep', though Mycroft had so far taken care of everything they needed on a financial basis – there had been mornings that bills had landed on the doorstep and when he'd taken them, the following morning, to the bank to be paid he'd been promptly told that it had already been addressed. Whilst this was great – he admired Mycroft's determination to help – he kind of felt indebted.

But then again, Mycroft hadn't been in touch for over a week and in that he felt angry. Sherlock had received parcels from him – the cup holder for his chair, back supports for chairs and even a letter addressing him explaining details of his new wheelchair – but that had been it. No communication, no 'how are you'. John assumed that the man knew; he wasn't naïve enough to dispel the possibility – probability? – that Mycroft had installed cameras in the house whilst ensuring it was fit for them. Still, he wished the man would be in touch with his brother directly, show some support of a familial kind as well as financial.

As he sat down at his desk, he considered calling home to check in with Sherlock. He had a couple of hours before his next patient, which was a rare occurrence, and he planned on filling the time with updating patient records but figured he could spare a few moments to call Sherlock. As he reached own to take the receiver from the cradle his phone gave a shrill ring. He jumped, the noise loud in his otherwise silent room, and laughed at himself as he lifted the phone up.

"John Watson," he said softly.

"It's Alice," the receptionist sang lightly, "There's a call for you on line two."

"Thanks Alice – got it," he smiled, reaching down and pushing the button. "John Watson," he spoke clearly, his posh telephone voice deep and strong.

"John, it's me."

"Sherlock," John rested back in his chair, "Calling instead of texting; God, you must be bored. What's up?" he asked, crossing his ankles beneath the desk.

"Bored." Sherlock's tone was long and drawn out.

"There is no way you have every one of those cases finished for Lestrade," John laughed.

"All but two, that one about boy murdered in 2007 and another about some drug ring in central London." Sherlock virtually yawned as he explained to John. "More to the point, aren't you supposed to be seeing patients?"

"Paperwork," John said softly. "Why don't you call Lestrade, tell him you're done with the lions share and see can you get any more information on the two you're struggling with."

"I'm not struggling with them," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "I'm just bloody bored."

"Well get out for some fresh air, then." John suggested, covering the receiver as his door was knocked and opened, revealing Sarah with a bright smile as she popped her head around the frame. "Sherlock," he turned back, "I'll call you back – give me five minutes."

"HI SARAH!" Sherlock shouted, though the woman was oblivious and John rolled his eyes as he laid the phone back into the cradle.

"Hi-," he quirked his brows, "How can I help?"

"I just wanted…you know I was joking before," she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb, "About what I said to Alice about Sherlock…the…" she flustered.

Tutting, John shook his head with a friendly smile, "Sarah, it's fine – of course I know you were joking." He looked at her with soft eyes and she felt herself blush. "Honestly," he added, unnecessarily, "All fine."

Shifting her eyes awkwardly, Sarah smiled. "Good, glad that's…understood." She nodded with almost her entire upper body moving to the motion. "I'll let you get back to your phone call." She smiled and reached for the handle.

"Thanks, Sarah," John said, by way of goodbye, and found his smile stayed even after she'd closed the door. But it soon softened, his brow turning deep in a frown as he thought; he wasn't so out of the loop, so used to being involved with the male of the species, that he'd forgotten how to read the female body. She was coming onto him, flirting with him like she had when he'd first started here, and he realised now that in the way he'd playfully responded and bantered back with her that it must appear that he was doing the same. He hissed in a breath; this wasn't good.

John arrived home that evening in miserable rain and a dull, grey sky. It seemed that during the course of his work day, a crisp early-winter day had become the depths of winter in a heartbeat. He held his bag over his shoulder and cuddles his coat tighter around his neck as he pushed his key into the lock and all but jumped into the hallway, gasping. "Fuck…" his teeth chattered, "Rain's like bloody iced blades, uh…" he shook himself off, water falling to the floor and sniffled, the cold air having made his nose run. "Sherlock?" he called out, dropping his bag to the floor. Unzipping his coat, he hung it on the banister rather than up with the others on the pegs, hoping it would dry out being a little closer to the radiator.

"Kitchen," Sherlock's reply was a little breathless and, for a moment, John wondered if something was wrong.

Frowning, his tongue lapping over his lips, he stepped cautiously across the hall and into the kitchen. His frown of uncertainty became one of gentle love as he realised the reason for the slight wain in Sherlock's voice. Baskerville was discarded by the door that led out onto the decked yard and Sherlock was upright and stable, if a little flushed, digging around in one of the higher cupboards of the kitchen.

"Hi there," John leaned against the door frame, a wide smile of uncontainable pride on his face. He didn't think that this would ever get old, seeing Sherlock regaining all he assumed he'd lost; they'd all assumed he'd lost. "Snooping?"

Shaking his head, pain beginning to creep in but his resolve strong, Sherlock pulled the tub of salt from the cabinet and placed it onto the standers table, "Experiment."

"Ah," John nodded, "Do I take it, then, that the dining table looks like a tsunami's hit it?"

"Best not to look," Sherlock replied easily.

"How long have you been standing?" John asked as casually as he could, stepping further into the kitchen and rolling up the sleeves of his cardigan as he reached the sink, quickly washing his hands.

Thinking a moment, though John was without a doubt that the detective had been methodically counting the seconds, Sherlock shrugged, "About ten minutes, maybe."

"Good," John shook off his hands and grabbed the dish towel from its hook. "Want to help with dinner or are you getting a little tired?"

"You're not planning on lasagne again?" he frowned at John, seemingly disgusted by the idea of mixing pasta, mince and tomato sauce with anything that resembled cheese.

"No I was thinking of ordering Chinese, just wondered if you'd do the calling," John smirked.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock screwed up his nose. John waited for something else, some kind of quip, but it didn't come. Instead he watched as Sherlock moved back a little in the stander, a clumsy but quick transition, and lined up enough to be able to lower the seat and transfer back into his chair easily. John felt a small pang of sorrow but quickly quashed it; yeah, OK, he was tired and in a bit of pain, but he'd been standing all that time, he'd built up the strength and he'd done it himself. This was an achievement, not a loss.

Instead of saying anything about it, John clapped his hands, "You say that now." He filled in the silence, "I'll order you something, yeah? Eat it later?"

He turned toward the phone – one of two in the house – sitting in a cradle on the kitchen counter and twiddled it in his hands as Sherlock seated himself comfortably. "No," he said, a strain in his voice before he coughed and cleared his throat, reaching out for the salt. "Experiments." He smiled, moving past John. "Tea would be good, though."

"You know, you're incredibly lazy?" John leant on the counter, tossing the phone in his hands a little more speedily and Sherlock, half way out of the kitchen, turned back with arched brows. "I've come in from a hard day's work and now you want me to slave for you – ridiculous. You were right near the kettle just then and yet you couldn't be arsed to make your own tea? Sometimes I hate our marriage." The joke was obvious and, to John's delight, Sherlock kept it up.

"I've had four children in as many years, I deserve a rest." He grinned and spun again "Experiment!" he called back, disappearing into the dining room with a light, amused laugh. It brightened John's smile and danced on his heart; a lighter-minded Sherlock was always a good Sherlock to be around. Twirling the phone one last time, he reached to the door of the fridge for the take-away menu and dialled out.

Suitably stuffed an hour later – John had taken the liberty of ordering in for Sherlock too, knowing full well he'd eat with him – Sherlock shuffled a little closer to John on the sofa, liking the scent of him under his nose. He'd missed John a little more readily today and it was weird; he'd never formed attachments as strongly as he had with John and, in the past, had never wished he were around so pertinently as he had today. It was nice to have him back, to recline against him like they'd been doing so often since the accident, to feel completely supported and loved without there being any agenda or anything expected of him to perform back in any way.

"Did you go out earlier?" John asked, breaking into Sherlock's thoughts, halting the hand that had been idly pulling at Sherlock's curls whilst both of their eyes were locked on the TV.

"Out the back," Sherlock nodded, "Cold air was nice."

"Clear your head for the cases?" John yawned, his chin bumping the top of Sherlock's head.

"I guess," he signed contentedly. "How was work?"

"Quiet, actually. Not as much winter flu as I expected." John twirled his fingers again. "Funniest thing, actually." He smirked, "Sarah was kind of…," he paused. "Well…not really but…" he mumbled.

"Kind of what?" Sherlock tilted his head back and then laughed sarcastically, "She's really still trying to form something sexual with you?" he asked, so matter-of-factly that John considered maybe it wasn't so much the 'funniest thing' and more the 'this is about to be analysed' kind of thing.

"No," he sighed, "But…"

"Are you considering accepting her advances?" Sherlock asked, turning himself by gripping his hands against John's body, looking the doctor in the eye.

"Acc-…Sherlock, don't be ridiculous." John almost laughed. "It's Sarah! My boss, my colleague, my friend – not my girlfriend, not you,"

"I'm not being ridiculous; it is a perfectly sound assumption. You've been there before, you like her and she likes you. You were interested in women before we met. She's the type of person to paw all over you, I've seen it happen." Sherlock's brow twitched.

"That was forever ago, Sherlock! And you hit the nail on the head yourself, there, I was interested in women before you. I'm not now." He licked his lips awkwardly. "Can we not do this, I was telling you because it wasn't a big deal and now you're turning it into something huge. It's not like we're having an affair!"

"But you would, if she offered?" Sherlock asked. "You're a sexual man, John."

"As are you if you'd bother to pay attention. I'm not attracted to Sarah."

Sherlock shook his head, pushing himself up with the air of the back of the sofa to sit off of John's body, "But you didn't answer my question which means that you would; if she made advances, you would accept them."

"I wouldn't." John shook his head, "I'm happy – you and me."

"No you're not – I may not be firing on all cylinders but I'm not stupid; I sleep next to you, I live with you, your body reacts in ways mine doesn't and you need those reactions aiding. That's not being happy, that's accepting your fate." Sherlock spat vehemently. "She can offer you the desires I couldn't before and can't for sure now."

"You offer me plenty – why are we even having this argument? I don't like Sarah like that, Sherlock. It's you I love, in a chair or otherwise. I don't like Sarah in that way and I certainly wouldn't go to her for sex. I have you and that's enough for me," He fixed his eyes on Sherlock, "Is this something you've been waiting for, a row like this to be able to tell me to go? Is it you who doesn't want me anymore?"

"I told you before, you don't have to stay." Sherlock said, eyes not meeting John's.

"I don't have to, no, but maybe I want to. You're a stubborn git and you throw everything up when you're insecure but don't want to admit it. You've made some amazing progress in the past week or so, you're so strong and you're determination is inspiring. What about that do you think makes me want to leave? I see nothing different in you, you're the Sherlock I met, was weirded out by, fell in love with and still love. I know you hate me being open like this with the love stuff, but it's true. I don't want to leave you, I don't want to sleep with Sarah, I want to be with you in any way I can and any way you can offer me. Sex, no sex, hugs, no hugs, walking or in a chair – I love you, not Sarah." John glared at Sherlock almost angrily.

"I don't like her." Sherlock said, stubbornly, his jaw firm.

"I noticed that, and all she ever does is sent her love." John rubbed his hand over his cheek. "I'm sorry I said anything OK, it wasn't supposed to be a big thing. Can we go back to cuddling now please because I was just getting my hips into a comfortable position...?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed and John knew, in an instant, he'd won him back. "You really aren't taken in by her flirting?"

John sighed, "I like Sarah, a lot, but no – I am not taken in by her flirting."

"But do you flirt back?" Sherlock asked suddenly, eyes scanning John's face. "Of course you do." He sighed. "Does she know it's insincere?"

"What?"

"The reciprocation of her flirtation, does she know you only do it to be polite? Or, do you do it because you mean it, because it is sincere?" Sherlock looked like a child, wide eyed and imploring, using the words of an adult with all the confusion of a love-sick teenager he'd never admit to being.

"It's sincere, I suppose, but it's just that – harmless flirting." John shrugged carefully. "Sherlock, I can't say it any more firmly; I don't want Sarah. God," he sighed, "Look forget I said anything." He climbed off the sofa, "Just delete it, like the…bloody solar system."

Sherlock sighed, a frown on his eyes and flung his head back over the back of the sofa. He breathed deeply a couple of times, watching John disappear into the bathroom and then back again in the same few paces. He hissed through his teeth, a sudden searing pain creeping in, and then gasped. "Ouch," he jerked forwards suddenly and John's face crumpled.

"What?"

"Oh! Ow…" Sherlock's hands flew around his back and he gritted his teeth.

"Spasms?" John's brows knitted and Sherlock nodded, his face contorted in pain. "Here-," he cupped one arm around Sherlock's front and reached down with the other, his fingers firm and splayed as he massaged against the entirety of Sherlock's lower back in palm-width sections. He offered Sherlock pillows to relax forwards, eventually leading him to lie out on his tummy, his arm beneath his head, giving John full access to his back with both hands, continuing to massage the tightly knotted muscles with both hands, firmly twisting his body beneath his fingers. "Feeling any better?" he asked, moments later, taking in the smoother sound of Sherlock's breathing.

"Yes," he nodded, still in a little pain but free of the initial, vice-like cramping aches. "Much." he exhaled, coolly.

"Is that your Marriage Moment?" John asked with a little smirk on his lips.

"My what?" Sherlock asked into his arms.

"Four Weddings and a Funeral; the way to get out of an embarrassing pause in conversation is to ask the girl to marry you…" John said, hands working Sherlock's bad a little less forcefully. "Doesn't matter," he smiled to himself. "I'm sorry, OK? If it hurt you to hear that about Sarah, I'm sorry but I want you to be fully aware that I'm not going to enter into anything with her." He halted his hands all together and shifted along the sofa to sit right by Sherlock's shoulders. "Look at me, please?"

Begrudgingly, Sherlock raised his head.

"Paralysed, arrogant, stroppy, experimental, individual old you is all I need, all I want and all I love. I don't see Sarah, OK? I see you." He licked his lips, "I know you hate the sentimental rubbish so I'll keep it short. I told you about Sarah as part of sharing my day, not because I want her or because I was rubbing it into your face. I should have kept it to myself, I'm sorry. I love you and nobody else, despite what you think."

Resting his chin on his arms, Sherlock looked up so high his almost rolled back into his head. "OK. Me too," he admitted with a tender bite of his bottom lip.

"I know," John nodded. "Now are you finished being dramatic? Mycroft did warn me about this…" he scratched his hand against his head nonchalantly. Sherlock shook his head and rested back onto his arms, looking out at John.

"No – still tight." He said with little joking.

"Hot bath? There's a bath in the top floor bathroom. I could probably manage to carry you up there."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "Just do what you were doing before, it was helping. And no more talk about Sarah." He spat her name, his eyebrows crooking in disgruntlement.

"Aye, sir," John nodded, glad of the resolution, and shuffled back down the sofa, "Don't go to sleep," he warned.

"Mm-hmm," Sherlock nodded, relaxing again under John's hands. This was good, this was enough. John was certain it wasn't a real resolution, but it was an appeasement, a break in the tension it had caused. Whilst he felt bad for obviously upsetting Sherlock, he felt better for having told him. He certainly didn't intend on going anywhere near a romantic relationship with Sarah. Of course he didn't.

* * *

-** My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	23. Chapter 23

"And then there are two bedrooms up there and an attic." John pointed up from the bottom of the stairs and then smiled at Mrs Hudson as she clutched her mug of tea, relishing in being given the guided tour of their new home, "We don't use them, obviously, having everything on these two floors. Seems a bit of a waste but Sherlock's adamant we don't rent them out." he shrugged.

"Lodgers are more trouble than they're worth," Mrs Hudson said and then gave John a cheeky smile. "It's lovely, really lovely." She nodded, sipping from her cup as she followed John back into the dining room. "And Sherlock gets around OK?" she asked, peering around the door frame, hoping not to be caught asking after the proud detective.

"He can't hear you, he's downstairs," John assured her gently, "But yes, he's doing great. This past week and a half, especially, he's really kind of, I don't know…just kind of become his old self again." He shrugged, unsure how else to describe it. "He's just doing so much better."

A sad smile took over the small woman's face and it took all her efforts not to well up with tears. "I'm really glad, I was so worried." She nodded at John, placing her cup onto the cluttered dining room, glancing around her. "This is the-," she waved her hands at the contraption in the corner, "Um," she fished for the word, "Frame-thing," she looked back at John, hopefully.

"Standing frame," John's smile was wide but one with the elder woman rather than at her. He stepped closer to it, resting his hand on the table. "Yeah – a Godsend, this thing; started off managing about two minutes, now he's averaging two or three times a day, ten or fifteen minutes each time. He's doing really well – if I could get him to conform to some kind of physical therapy programme, he'd do better but…for now," he smiled, "It's a special bit of equipment."

"Looks rather odd," she pulled down the sides of her mouth.

"I suppose it is, in some respects. It's perfect for him, though – supports his entire body and voila, he's standing upright in his full six-foot glory; he lights up, he's who he was again until it gets tiring and he has to sit," John shrugged one shoulder, "Why don't you go back down to him, I'll just check on dinner and join you. Greg should be here soon, too."

"Oh," Mrs Hudson's smile brightened, following John out as far as the hallway, "That lovely Inspector?"

"Yeah," John laughed lightly, "I'd been meaning to call him over so I figured why not tonight, seen as we had you for company, too. Was a bit of an after-thought but he seemed pleased enough to just be considered but he's doing a lot for us, he was a fixture when Sherlock was in hospital and he's doing all he can on the case – it's the least I can do to cook dinner," he placed his hand on her shoulder lightly, "Go on down, tell him I said he's to put the book away." He added, watching the woman disappear down the stairway to the basement.

He listened out for a minute, smiling as he heard Mrs Hudson's almost infamous "yoo-hoo" to Sherlock as she traipsed through the living room, and then took himself into the kitchen. Dinner wasn't a masterpiece by any means; a simple fish-dish with new potatoes, green beans and carrots and what John hoped would be a half-decent white parsley sauce to accompany the fish. He'd picked up wine and a few bottles of lager, ensured there was something small – in this case, cheesecake – for afters and was feeling hopeful and rather proud of his efforts this far. Poking a fork into the not-quite-there-yet potatoes, he turned the heat down slightly to prevent it bubbling over and fixed the lid back on as the doorbell rang, sending its obnoxious chin through the house.

Pacing across the hall, John smiled as he pulled open the door, "Greg, glad you could make it," he held out his hand to the officer on his doorstep.

Shaking John's hand firmly, Greg offered his usual tired but always sincere smile. "Me too – wasn't sure what you brought to dinner parties, not asked to many, so I got a bottle of white, a bottle of red and a few cans of lager," he held up the blue-and-white striped carrier bag to John, handing it over proudly.

"Cheers mate. You needn't have bothered bringing anything; it's supposed to be a night of me thanking you." John smiled, placing the bag on the stairs for a moment to allow him to grab Greg's coat and hang it on the hooks. He led the detective into the kitchen with him, emptying the bag of its items and storing them in their rightful places. "Drink?" he clapped his hands, "Lager, wine…?"

"Lager's great, thanks," Greg nodded, accepting the cool bottle from John as he popped the lid off. "Where's the man himself?"

"Entertaining Mrs Hudson who, consequently, is almost vibrating at the knowledge that you're joining her for dinner tonight," John laughed, opening a bottle for himself, and rested back on the counter as Greg did the same opposite him. "You're a hit," he winked.

"Nice to be a hit with someone," Greg licked his lips and downed a good mouthful of the lager.

John nodded, eyes wide, "I know what you mean." He peered across the cooker at his food, satisfied nothing was burning just yet.

"You look exhausted," Greg pointed his bottle at John.

"Could say the same about you," John countered jokingly and then shrugged, "I am, I guess – I'm back at the surgery, working four or five days out of seven so far, off tomorrow for Sherlock's appointment at the hospital. Lots of late nights and early mornings, you know? Typical Sherlock fashion with added agonising muscle spasms at all hours." Greg drew his mouth down in sympathy. "What's your excuse?" he quickly switched the subject, nodding at the DI.

"Work," Greg laughed at himself. "Twelve or fourteen hour days, six days a week…Sally-bloody-Donovan and her conspiracy theories." He shook his head, "The usual."

"Conspiracy theories," John shook his head, swigging from the bottle, then placed it down and turned his back on Greg momentarily as he checked on the dinner, turning off what was cooked through and began moving around, plating up and fixing everything up.

"You know Donovan, always a problem with someone somewhere."

"Me and Sherlock," John looked over his shoulder.

"Not - not in so many words no." Lestrade's unease was evident and John shrugged it off.

"Can't please everyone," he chuckled, despite wanting to press the detective inspector further. "I'm going to be a few minutes with this, why don't you go down and join in the general chit-chat and I'll call you all back up when it's done."

"You don't want a hand?" Greg offered, eyebrows arching up.

"No, not at all, you're the guest. Go on, go and make merry with Sherlock." John smirked. Rolling his eyes at the quip, Greg took himself off, down into the basement, leaving John alone with his cooking and his over-thinking.

Satisfied with his quick setting of the dining room table, John dished the dinner out onto piping hot plates and ensured they were at the table, along with the wine, water and glasses, before he called down the stairs for everyone to "shift their arses" and join him for dinner. He piled up the pans in the sink whilst he waited for everyone to join him, filling it with hot water and bubbles and letting the washing soak. He rinsed his hands quickly and dried them on the dish towel, throwing it aside just as Mrs Hudson's gentle laughter could be heard as she stepped out of the lift with Sherlock.

"Was there brandy in Mrs Hudson's tea?" Sherlock asked, accosting John the moment he saw him; though his expression was serious, his voice was soft.

"Not yet," John smiled. "Doing OK?" he rested his hand on Sherlock's head, fingers in his curls to feel the gentle nod the detective gave.

"Oh, leave off you two. This is a family day out," Greg teased, climbing the last step of the stairs.

"Jealousy is foul, Lestrade." Sherlock licked his lips.

The four made their way into the dining room, directed to their assigned seats by John and sat down their meal comfortably. John and Sherlock were on the main side of the table, backs to the entrance, and Mrs Hudson and Greg were sitting on the opposite side, much to Mrs Hudson's girlish delight.

"You really did all this yourself, John? It looks wonderful." Mrs Hudson smiled, eyeing the plate of well-presented veggies and cod covered in a creamy sauce. "You never managed this in Baker Street," she commented lopsidedly and looked at Greg with a smile. "Do you cook, Inspector?"

"Greg, please," Lestrade insisted. "But no – not really, more microwave dinners." He looked to John with a knowing laugh.

"John's had to learn to be a good housekeeper since we no longer have you, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said softly, always charming with the older woman.

John had always found their relationship endearing; like a mother, she would hen-peck and like a son he would snap, but essentially – like mother and son – the were infinitely caring and loving of each other in a way John could never understand, given Sherlock's reactions to almost every other person on the planet. But it occurred to John, and not for the first time, that his friend closest allies, even with Mycroft in consideration, were the three of them here with him now.

"Well you're doing marvellously, dear," Mrs Hudson smiled fondly, skewering a piece of carrot. "But I was never your housekeeper." She added, a cocked eyebrow looking so comical on her face.

"Of course not," John shook his head and finished off the dregs of his lager. "So I get a thumbs up?" he asked, eyeing everyone's plates as they ate contentedly, even Sherlock though he did insist on picking. Greg nodded, his mouth too full too speak, and dropped his fork down to offer his literal thumbs up.

"As ever," Sherlock remarked, reaching for the jug of water, "Your manners are impeccable." His eyebrows rose up in his typical mocking manner and Lestrade responded with a curl of his lip, more than used to Sherlock by now.

They descended into a comfortable quiet, broken intermittently as they ate by Lestrade's polite questions aimed at John or Mrs Hudson's giggling at the DI. They were at ease with one another – even Sherlock, who all but cleared his plate gratefully – and the flow of the evening was neither forced nor strained. John kept everybody topped up with drinks and took a moment to sit back and smile at the faces around him locked in conversation; he'd not felt this content in a long time, pre- or post-shooting, and it felt strange and unnatural but so, so right.

He was brought back to the room as Sherlock edged back from the table, taking his plate on his lap and holding out his hand to John for his. "I can do it," He said softly. Sherlock flicked his wrist at John and waited until the crockery was passed to him. Lifting the cutlery from his own plate, he placed John's on top and steadied them both with his hands, then edged back into the table again, stretching across to take Mrs Hudson and Greg's empty plates.

"Ah no, it's alright…I can…" Greg said, pushing back his chair to get up.

"I can't walk Lestrade, but my hands work fine." Sherlock said sharply, his fingertips resting on Greg's plate offering enough purchase for him to drag it toward him a little before taking a better grip but the DI reached down and took it in his own hands.

"Honestly, let me." He said with a hit of nervousness.

"Yes, really Sherlock," Mrs Hudson echoed Greg's movements, "We can do this ourselves, just you sit tight. Here-," She stepped around and reached onto Sherlock's lap, "Give those to me, let me take them for you, dear."

John gritted his teeth in a cringe, "It's really OK, I make him clean up after himself…" he tried to joke.

"Take them," Sherlock spat, lifting the plates from their perfectly sound position on his lap and let them clatter noisily onto the dinner table, "Take them," he drew back from the table and turned, heading straight for the lift.

"Sherlock-," Greg called out, "We just…,"

"Leave him," John shook his head, "Just try not to coddle him; he's capable enough." He said, getting to his feet. "C'mon into the kitchen, I'll put the kettle on." he held out his hands to his guests and stocked his own arms with the dinner plates, carting them into the kitchen as the lift doors closed behind Sherlock. Mrs Hudson loitered close to John in the kitchen, insistent on helping him to clean up whilst Greg took on the task of making tea and coffee for everyone.

"I really didn't mean to upset him," Mrs Hudson said sadly, her face draw down as she died the stock of plates and placed them on the counter.

"I know, I've done it myself often enough – you get lost in trying to make things easier and don't realise you end up completely taking over. He'll be fine in a minute, you just bruised his ego. Just, like I said…try not to assume he needs help with everything. He can pretty much do all himself," he smiled at her fondly and, drying his hands on the dish towel, placed his hand softly on her shoulder in what he hoped was a gentle gesture. "Don't look so worried, it's easy to get swept up. I promise that it's fine."

"He looked pretty pissed," Greg commented, leaning heavily on the counter, liking that he could all but rest his butt on the work top without hopping up. "Then again he always does," he smirked and John offered a small smile of agreement.

"It's just the babying he doesn't like – like he said, his hands work fine. He's completely able to do it; in fact we're just waiting on Mycroft getting hold of something to fix onto the chair to make it even easier, cup holder or tray of some sort. Just don't jump in so quickly – you've seen it Greg, the first few days we were home when it was bad, if he needs the help he'll ask for it until then you've just got to assume he can do it without a glitch." John explained again. "It's really not a big deal, we'll go down there now and hand him his coffee and it'll be forgotten and he'll expect to be the centre of attention again," he smiled. "Don't look so worried, guys, please – I put my foot in it all the time, we're all learning here."

Just as John had predicted, their arrival into the basement was greeted with an outstretched hand with grabbing fingers waiting to be filled with a coffee mug. John took a chance look in Greg's direction and the pair shared a knowing nod. Sitting close to, but not touching Sherlock, John hooked his legs up comfortably as Greg and Mrs Hudson relaxed back into the L-shaped couch. Sipping at her tea, Mrs Hudson couldn't help gazing around the room, still in awe of the houses size and furnishings. Greg's eyes wandered, too, flicking over Sherlock's empty chair, the second standing frame – meant for Bart's whenever Sherlock decided he would fully return to work and was able for it – in the corner by the wall that led into the bathroom, the discarded supports with their grips for the backs of chairs and tried to assess them all. Trying to take John's words to heart was harder than he'd imagined – he hadn't seen a lot of Sherlock since coming home, not really, and he was finding the changes, the equipment that accompanied him, hard to adjust to.

"This place still gets me," Greg laughed, a hand brushing through his silver hair.

"It's like a make-believe fairground." Mrs Hudson smiled, clutching her cup between both hands.

John nodded, sitting forwards to leave his cup on the coffee table, "I had no idea places like this even existed, Mycroft found it."

"Has his uses then?" Greg joked under his breath and Sherlock looked across at him.

"Very occasionally," he chipped in and neither John nor Greg could work out if it were sarcasm or joining in with the joke.

"My sister wouldn't be the sort to buy a house," Mrs Hudson went on, undeterred by the slight dip in the atmosphere and it brought a smile to John's tired face.

"Neither would mine," John winked and reached forwards for his cup again with a laugh threatening in his throat.

"Your sister is an alcoholic; Mrs Hudson's sister is just elderly. In reality, your sister doesn't really have a valid reason other than her own weakness and stupidity." Sherlock looked at John earnestly. He was operating on the rule he and Mycroft shared; if it was true, it shouldn't hurt. John, it seemed, was attempting to log into this system but wasn't quite there.

"Yes, alright Sherlock," John held his hand up to him. "Save your opinions on Harry for tonight, thank you. Don't spoil a nice evening."

Greg's eyes shifted awkwardly as he rose his cup to his lips, draining what remained of his hot drink. "Listen, sorry to eat-and-run but I'm working tomorrow." He looked a little apologetic as he flicked his eyes between John and Sherlock. "It's been nice, dinner was great. Thanks." He rose to his feet, leaving his mug on the coffee table.

"Thanks for coming," John said, getting to his feet.

"I should…" Mrs Hudson said, standing up too. "…it's getting late," She smiled at John.

"Of course, thank you for coming!" He nodded gently.

"Thank you for dinner, it's been lovely to see you both and to see the new house." She gushed, wrapping her arms around John tightly and kissed his cheek before she gave Sherlock the same treatment. As he usually did for his housekeeper, Sherlock didn't deny her the tactile ways and even returned the kiss on the cheek she offered. "Lovely to see you," She said, cupping Sherlock's cheeks. "Lovely to see you,"

"You too, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock brightened his eyes as much as he could without looking more menacing than happy.

"Sherlock," Greg held his hand out to younger man and shook Sherlock's hand firmly when he extended it to him. "I'll be in touch-," he said, awkwardly. Greg was forever awkward this past few weeks.

"I look forward to," Sherlock replied with an eyebrow arched.

"I'll see you both out," John said when Greg held his hand out to him, allowing the Inspector and Mrs Hudson to lead him up the stairs and into the hallway.

Sherlock reclined a little more into the sofa, his head back against the rest and tilted to give him full view of the stairs to await John's return. He listened to John as he exchanged pleasantries on the doorstep, heard the light smacking of lips as he kissed Mrs Hudson's cheek and bid her goodnight. A wave of relief washed over him, though, as the door was pushed closed and he heard John slip the bolt across and hook the chain in place. Alone, again; this was how he liked it, just he and John.

* * *

John's eyes were fixed firmly on the rather young, yet keen-eyed doctor sitting around the opposite side of the desk, listening intently to all he had to say. Sherlock's chin was all but resting on his chest, his eyes to his lap where his hands fidgeted nervously. "Well – your ultrasound is good, your blood results are good, no sign of infection and there doesn't appear to be any damaged caused by the shots themselves to the kidneys,"

"No they completely missed any major organs at all which, in some small manner, was a miracle." John scratched his cheek.

"Your urine output is normal?" he asked, glancing up from the sheets in front of him and flicked his young eyes over Sherlock, then to John.

"Hard to know," Sherlock's tone was small.

"Ah, yes – you don't catheterise, do you?" Doctor Fisher asked, "Notes don't say either way." He glanced back down.

"He's been relying on pads for now; he needed more time to come to a decision, to work out what was going to work for him personally," John submitted. "But in answer to your question, things seem OK – his belly's never distended as though he's retaining urine. I have noticed something of a kind of a hint as to when his bladder is fuller," he licked his lips and looked at Sherlock gently, "His stomach muscles will sort of jump – not quite a spasm, more movement." He frowned at how unprofessional he sounded.

To his surprised, the doctor nodded, "Some patients experience similar things to this; it isn't always good to rely on this as a sign for catheterisation or using the bathroom as though fully able-bodied as the patient themselves often doesn't realise the movement and it isn't always a precise measurement, but it is definitely something I have heard mentioned before," he smiled a little at John then turned to Sherlock. "Had you come to a decision as to what avenue you'd like to go down? It comes down at the end of the day to what you're comfortable with."

John felt his tummy tighten in a slight cringe at Sherlock's unease as he took a deep breath, not comfortable discussing anything of this sort with John let alone with another person. The doctor nodded his encouragement as he opened his mouth to talk at last, "I did um, a bit of reading up on ex-external catheters."

Doctor Fisher nodded – progress? – and licked his lower lip, "Definitely a less invasive option," he reclined in his seat, "Offers you the ability to do away with the use of sanitation underwear expect maybe at night it would be more comfortable to use them then. It's not one-hundred percent ideal if you plan to be more active – could be a little bit of a pain come physiotherapy sessions. It allows you freedom and privacy, certainly; you can use the bathroom to empty the bag – it does give you a lot more control." His elaboration seemed to make Sherlock frown in confusion than nodded in agreement and affirmation that this was the right choice for him. "There is a higher rate of UTIs reported for those who use external catheters because of the nature of them being constantly worn on the body but there are preventative medications for this in the form of antibiotics."

John frowned, "So although a lot more positive in the way of independence it's not the best of options?"

"More commonly, people chose the method of intermittent self-catheterisation. Simply, the catheter is inserted into the urethra every four to six hours – it's different for everybody how spaced the time between each catheterisation will be; if you drink more, your bladder will fill more and you'll need to catheterise more often. It's simple and can be done in the privacy of any bathroom." He explained with his hands expressively, "It does away with the need for wearing tubing or bags worn on the body. You simply need a catheter and lubrication and you can carry those in a bag or backpack on your chair." he nodded sharply. "Some people opt for wearing smaller pads, too, but with regular catheterisation and vigilance, there should be almost complete security, thought initially I would say to continue to use the sanitation pads as a little extra back-up because nothing is going to happen over-night." He gave a gentle smile.

"It's reliable?" John asked, gently.

"Mostly affective, yes; of course, like most things to do with the human body it presents its own possible risks but they are minimal when due care is taken. Shall I walk you through it, for example?" he suggested and reached into the draw to his right, drawing out a wrapped piece of tubing and a small bottle of slick, clear liquid. "It is as simple as it sounds, but not, as I said, without its risks. It is important to ensure your hands are clean before and after the catheterisation; hands are dirty things and would be first in line for causing infections. Then the next vital step is ensuring the end of the catheter to be inserted into the urethra is lubricated six to eight inches along." He explained, taking the catheter from the wrapping and shook the little bottle of lubrication to indicate it. He measured a rough estimate of six inches along the tubing in his hand and held it up.

"It is important that the catheter be properly lubricated or it could cause tears along its passage inside the body which opens up the possibility for infection which is nasty at the best of times but when you're unable to recognise any symptoms of pain it could go unnoticed and get worse. The main thing to remember is to be slow and steady – ease the catheter in and you reduce the risks of any issues, and apply the same ease when removing it; it may be that your bladder will spasm, causing it to close over the catheter, the important thing in this case is to be patient and not to attempt to pull the catheter away. The more careful you are, the more vigilant and relaxed you are about this, the easier it'll be."

Sherlock's face was set in a thick frown, his eyes on the Doctor's hands, his cheeks a glowing red whilst John nodded silently; it was different being on this side of a medical consultation of this sort.

"You would be given prescriptions to be filled which will allow you to freely obtain catheters via your local pharmacy." Doctor Fisher explained. "In terms of when to catheterise, it all comes down to your body and your fluid intake. Initially at least it would be ideal to keep a track of what you drink and then how much you void from your bladder when you catheterise. The more you take in, the more you'll excrete naturally, but it's important to keep an eye on what is voided from the bladder to ensure your bladder is emptying correctly; it wouldn't do to fail to empty the bladder completely as this could lead to UTIs."

John looked across at Sherlock as he took a heavy breath in.

The doctor slowed his lesson and looked at Sherlock kindly, "I know that it's a lot to take in and it sounds daunting, but after a couple of days it becomes as natural as using the bathroom the same way as you did when able-bodied; it'll become as usual as changing your socks." He smiled.

"What about kidney stones," John asked, "He won't feel the pain,"

"They are a risk – this risk is greater when you're wholly inactive so exercise, physiotherapy, as much movement as possible is paramount. It's when you don't give your body the movement it needs, calcium levels will raise in the blood and this is what leads to the kidney or bladder stones. This is one of many reasons why we strongly recommend intensive physiotherapy." Doctor Fisher nodded.

"I know," John's brows twitched and he looked across at Sherlock. "It's been hard getting him to do anything – he's not the most comfortable with human contact," he smiled. "Being a doctor, I understand how important it is – being Sherlock, he's still not receptive."

Doctor Fisher shared John's smile, "Ah, yes. Doctor Watson…So you have the added bonus, Sherlock, of having a doctor in the house to assist you with this anyway." he tapped the notes before him with another, gentle smile. "You're the first person I have seen so far in my short career with your specific injury, Sherlock – T12-L1 spinal cord injury," he read off of the notes, "I've seen many, though, in worse or slightly better situations and some of whom have shared your views on the physio side of things and I will say to you what I said to them; to keep your independence, your health in check, it is a must. You need the physical activity or you'll find that you're able to do it at all. Do you see?"

Inhaling sharply, Sherlock nodded, "Yes,"

"I really do think that intermittent self-catheterisation is the best option – it's a way to really take back everything from your life prior to your accident almost fully." Doctor Fisher nodded sincerely at Sherlock. "Of course if you opt to continue the use of just the pads, if you're comfortable that way, then that's fine but I think in terms of confidence and a little more freedom, self-catheterisation is the best way forward."

"No harm is experimenting," Sherlock looked up, his voice low and his eyes a little misted and far-off. The entire thing had been overwhelming and embarrassing and he just wanted to leave as soon as he could. He'd do, say, try, perform anything if it would get him out of continuing this conversational line and allow him to go home – he'd had enough of hospitals to last him a lifetime.

John was, obviously, the only one to get the double-meaning of Sherlock's words and let out a breathy laugh before covering his hand with his mouth.

"Indeed, there's not." Doctor Fisher nodded. "It's finding where you're comfortable and you won't find that unless you give it a go. We can set up a repeat prescription today for your requirements and set up a follow-up appointment for two weeks from now, give you a bit of time to get to grips with the new routine. I'm sure Doctor Watson will be right on hand to ensure the first few insertions go as smoothly as possible," he smiled warmly, reaching into his desk to push the items away before tapping at the keyboard of his worn, old computer.

John chanced a look across at Sherlock and their eyes met. Pulling his mouth into a one-sided smile, John reached out his hand and touched against Sherlock's elbow. "You OK?" he asked softly. Sherlock nodded silently but the sigh that accompanied the movement told John that a meltdown was imminent if they weren't freed from the doctor's office soon. Sherlock was feeling embarrassed, closed in and claustrophobic, at discussing his own mortality – his own body and accepting it's needs – and needed to leave. "Thank you for this," John looked back at the doctor, "Discussing things has helped set our minds at ease; Sherlock's very…"

Doctor Fisher waved his hand, "Its fine-," he rose to his feet, crossing the room to the noisy printer in the corner. "If you take this to the pharmacy, to the left of the lobby on the ground floor, they'll fill it for you and give you the docket you need for accessing your repeats at your local chemist."

John rose up, taking the sheet from the doctor's hand as he offered it. "Thank you," he held out his hand, shaking Doctor Fisher's hand firmly.

"I'll have your follow-up appointment sent out to you in the next couple of days. Good luck, I hope you find a…rhythm, that it works," he stumbled a little over his words under Sherlock's gaze. He held his hand out to the detective courteously and Sherlock shook it briefly.

"Thank you, Doctor." He replied, his full lips sticking together, dried out at the nervousness he'd been consumed by for the entire consultation.

Holding out his hand in something of a half-wave, the doctor nodded a goodbye, "I'll see you soon."

John held open the door and allowed Sherlock to lead him out. As the door closed behind them both, a lightness came over them at having a hurdle out of the way – you always felt lighter leaving the doctors than going in; John assumed – even with his own experience of being the one in the medical driving seat – that it was just the weight off your mind at expecting the worse before going in. The headed toward the lifts in silence, John's eyes reading over the prescription whilst Sherlock focused on getting out of the hospital as soon as possible. Pushing the call button on the lift, they waited awkwardly for its arrival.

"So…" John broke the silence just as the lift doors opened to allow them in, the lift empty besides themselves. "…how'd you feel now?"

"OK," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Think you can do this? You know I'll be there to help until you get it right, just like with getting dressed – it'll take a few days and a few…mistakes and a bit of effort, but you'll get it right and it'll work out." he licked his lips as the lift kicked in and began to sink them down to the lower floors slowly.

"I'll manage," Sherlock looked up at John, the discomfort of moments ago slowly seeping away. "I like this option better, I think…there are just so many things to consider, so much to take into account."

"There is no matter what option you choose," John nodded, placing his hand on the handle of the chair as the doors swung open on the ground floor to allow them out. "I didn't mean to freak you out asking about kidney stones but it's a possibility. But like he said, if you're careful and do your bloody physio-," he clapped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, walking a little quicker beside him as they searched out the pharmacy, "then the risks are lower."

"Yes, Doctor." Sherlock glanced up, a little playfulness in his eye. John liked that, the devilment, the slight cheekiness that came over Sherlock in times of comfort, the Sherlock he got that nobody else did.

"I'm serious," he poked Sherlock's shoulder again, "I agree with Doctor Fisher, actually, I do think this is a better option in terms of being able to move about more and social freedom, I guess. You've just got to promise me now that you'll work with me and let me help you with physio."

"Yes, John." Sherlock stopped, "I will – can we just drop all medical talk now and get this prescription and go home? I just want a couple of hours of today to not be about hospitals and my inabilities and for it to just be about anything else…"

Raising his hands up in agreement John nodded, "Lips are sealed," he pulled his thumb and index fingers across his mouth like a zip and pointed Sherlock forwards as he spotted a sign for the pharmacy. He tried to convince himself over any possible doubts that Sherlock meant his promise, that this would work better and life would go on as normal. He was obscured, he knew, by rose-tinted specs that were blocking out, conveniently, all the tantrums Sherlock was likely to throw in pure frustration over the next few days until he got the hang of things but he didn't care – he convinced himself that this was going to be the final hurdle and then everything would be fine.

* * *

- **Never has my thanks been more sincerely extended to Hannah and Rasmus than in this chapter, the second half would have been a balls up without their amazing assistance and I owe the chapter to them.**

**My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Big changes in this chapter, a pretty big part of the story originally has been rewritten drastically...**

* * *

John slipped out of bed begrudgingly on Saturday morning, just before seven. Friday had been a drain on Sherlock's resources so he wasn't surprised when he wasn't greeted with Sherlock's grunting as he moved, instead the Detective slept on with his open-mouthed breathing and slight sucking against his tongue whilst John threw on his clothes after a quick wash in the bathroom. He sat on the bed again to pull on his socks and shoes and fought with the urge to lie back down and stay; he wasn't hungry for the sleep or lazing after the work, he just wanted to capture Sherlock's face a little longer whilst he slept – the lines of worry erased from his forehead, leaving it smooth and soft, leaving him looking younger than his thirty-six years and infinitely calm.

But John's worth ethic ran just as deep as his love for Sherlock did. Leaning over the bed gently, he kissed Sherlock's temple in a moment of sentimental mush before finally pulling himself away. He grabbed his phone and keys from the locker and slipped almost silently across the large room and padded on the balls of his feet up the stairs to the top floor. His breakfast was a quick and rushed affair; a banana from the bowl on the counter and a glass of milk. Making a mental note to bring more milk home, he ate the banana as he left the house, opting to walk in the early morning crispness rather than hail a taxi or jump on the bus. He hadn't worked a weekend clinic since he'd first started at the practice with Sarah but he remembered it had been all but silent most of the day with many people assuming that the weekend meant no doctors in surgeries and taking themselves off to A&E. But even with the prospect of his day being rather easy, or at least filled mostly with catching up on paperwork and talking to Sarah, he battled with his wills at turning at returning to the house.

By the time he reached the surgery, the morning had lightened and a heatless sun had brightened in the sky where the clouds that threatened rain or snow parted for brief intervals. His face felt cold in the slight breeze and his nose was beginning to run, but he felt more awake and clear-headed for the brisk, winter walk as he pulled open the doors of the surgery to allow himself in. Sarah looked up from behind the desk, seeing patients on the weekend and running reception to keep labour down, and smiled softly as John approached.

"Morning," he offered her a light wave of his left hand and then reached for the zip on his coat, hauling it down with a loud scraping.

"Morning, John. You're bright and early," She flicked her eyes toward the clock on the wall above the patient's toilet door.

"Better than late," John pushed his cheeks up. "Any calls so far?"

"One, young girl with a five-month-old worried about a rash on his tummy; I said to bring him to A&E if the rash didn't disappear beneath a glass when rolled over it gently," Sarah said, eyebrows up sympathetically. "But there's been nothing else so far. Oh," she stopped John as he walked toward his room, down a small sub-wait corridor toward the back of the surgery. He spun on his feels and smiled at her expectantly. "Yesterday," she garbled, waving her hand, "Sherlock, the hospital – how did it go?"

John's mouth formed a silent 'oh'. "Good," he nodded, "Healthy enough for now," he said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his open coat. "Giving self-catheterisation a whirl," he spoke with an air of ease that made Sarah unsure whether to smile or frown. "There's something on his mind, I think it's cases he's working on for Scotland Yard, maybe his own, I don't know - but he's good otherwise," he nodded and turned again, "Thanks," he called out, an afterthought, and continued down toward his room.

Sarah watched him walk away, swinging her arms at her sides awkwardly like a teenager before turning back toward the desk. She loitered a moment before turning and heading down the corridor. She paused outside of John's room with one arm raised, ready to knock, and it took her a few moments to muster the courage she needed to knock. She listened out for John's acknowledgement before walking inside with a gentle smile that pulled at her eyes.

"How can I help?" John asked, rolling up the sleeves of his cardigan. He lowered into his chair and started the computer, waiting for Sarah to speak.

"I just wanted to say that if you need someone, I can…," She stammered, raising a thin hand to her face as she flustered her pre-planned speech. "I just mean that. Oh, bugger." She rolled her eyes, "Look if you need to talk, I'm open to listen – that's what I wanted to say, I just wanted you to know that if everything with the shooting and Sherlock is getting too much and you need to vent I'm here. But, it's probably stupid and you probably had people to talk to," she waved her hand, heading toward the door again, thoroughly embarrassed, "Forget I said anything, sorry."

"Sarah," John said gently, stopping the auburn-haired woman in her tracks. She turned slowly and was met by John's ever-warm smile. "Thank you – that means a lot."

Sarah stepped closer to John's desk and hovered a moment before sitting in one of the two chairs that faced him. "Did you want to grab a cuppa and talk now; the phones are set and we have nobody booked – we can sit out front to be on the safe side and just talk?"

Twitching his lips, John nodded. "Actually, yeah – that's exactly what I need."

* * *

"Thing is John," Sarah said, sipping her third cup of tea of the morning. Surgery had been deserted the entire time, bar a few phone calls, and she was on the brink of telling John to take the day and return home, but their conversation had been strong and she wasn't willing to cut it off for the sake of closing up shop. John obviously needed the chance to talk and, after all, she'd offered. "You focus so much on what he wants, what he needs from you. It's important to remember that there is a lot you still want and need, not just from him, but in your life in general."

"It's not about me, though. It's not my life that's been damaged," John blinked slowly, a little unnerved.

"Your life is with Sherlock in your manner – I don't label people and I certainly don't judge but there is a relationship between you and Sherlock that is unprecedented. It's not a homosexual thing, I don't think. Pansexual, maybe, I don't know but you guys have a special bond that nobody understands – and your life has been changed too." Sarah reasoned, leaning back on the seat and resting her elbow on the edge, cupping her head in her hand. "You can't focus all your attention on him, all your time on him, and abandon what the changes have done to you."

John shook his head, "Sherlock's the priority. You've him," he flashed his hand to her, "He's the most stubborn and active person I've ever met – without mobility all the while he goes crazy. If I stop thinking about him, about his needs and wants and keeping him going then so will he. Yeah, sure, I miss things about our relationship before – but then there are things that happen now that didn't before, you know?" he blushed a little, "We sit together on the couch, him using me as a pillow, every night so long as he's in a good mood. We didn't do that before, our intimacy was sex and by sex I mean a quick hand job or blow job in the shower, Sherlock was never into that – but I knew that and so I don't miss a huge amount since the change in his life."

"But it's not just his life," Sarah said. "I don't just mean sex, either John. What I mean is you need to consider your wants. Are you truly going to spend the rest of your life as Sherlock's partner and to some extent be there as a carer or…"

John shook his head firmly, "I'm not leaving him – I love him as much if not more than I did before he was shot. Relationships come with rough and smooth; he needs me for certain things, yeah, and so I'll be there for those. I can't just turn away because he's a foot or two lower down now and can't reach the top shelf," he said with a little petulance in his tone and Sarah regretted not wording herself more eloquently.

Sitting forwards, Sarah pushed her hair from her eyes, "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant – I just meant that part of what you were attracted to in Sherlock was his adventure, true?" when John nodded, Sarah echoed it. "That adventure, the rush of running around London playing Spiderman has stopped and, realistically, probably won't start again – part of what you loved in Sherlock isn't there anymore. Doesn't that make your reasons for loving him change? If there was a part of my partner that had gone that was previously a big part of why I loved them, I would question whether I still did love them or whether…"

"I'm not you, Sarah," John rose up from his chair. "I know what you're trying to do but I'm happy with Sherlock and I love him not in spite of everything but because of it. He's extraordinary and he's changing and that's both hard and amazing and I won't give that up. Sure, there have been mornings I've opened my eyes recently and thought that I could run away and not have to look at him with pain in my eyes or see the pain in his; I've remembered my old life, before Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes and Afghanistan and I've wondered 'what if'."

Sarah matched his height as he rose from her chair and reached out her hand gently, touching his shoulder. "It's not a bad thing to wonder, John."

"It is," he nodded, tearful but refusing to cry. "Sarah I love him but it's hard. He's so different, but he's still the same but not quite. I miss him and I love who he is now equally – he's softer around the edges and yet more angry than before. I wondered a few times how it would be if I just-," he looked up at Sarah and sighed out, shrugging his shoulders. "…if I just…" he shook his head.

Sarah stared at him intently, her lips drawn to the side, both hands on his shoulders as they stood face to face, trying to reassure him that, as best as she could, she understood. "I won't judge whatever you're trying to say so just say it – nobody can tell you what's right or wrong to feel in a situation like this."

John nodded and blinked and exhaled heavily, "If I just left."

Sarah stepped forwards, hands out as if to offer a hug and then dropped them to her sides. "John, it's OK – there's no shame in being…unsure."

John's hand flew out, "I'm not unsure, I love him, I do but…." He rambled before sighing heavily again, "I'm sorry – I have a splitting headache, do you mind I just…" he thumbed behind him toward the door.

Sarah could hardly refuse and, softening her face, she shook her head, "No, go on, take as much time as you need." She tried to smile sincerely but it came out as forced as it felt, watching him with sympathetic eyes as he all but scrambled out of the surgery.

He walked home slowly, contemplating his words. He'd actually admitted, out loud, what had merely niggled once or twice at him. He knew he never could or never would leave Sherlock, but the thought had occurred to him and now that it had been spoken, he felt almost as though he'd betrayed Sherlock in some way, or failed him as a partner. Reaching home, he dug his hand into his coat pocket for the door key, wrapping the door in the meantime with his free hand and was surprised when the door was dragged open by Mycroft. His appearance seemed strange to John and brought him back, in his mind, to the hospital where he'd seen the older man dressed like this before; his usual smart trousers were in place but rather than a suit jacket and waistcoat over his shirt he wore a smart jumper, the sleeves of which were slightly hitched up over his remarkably dark forearms. "Doctor Watson," he smiled his usual sly smile, "I was under the impression you were working today?"

Stepping in, John searched his mind for a reply, "Yeah, I'm umm…coming down with a migraine," he rubbed his temple. "No real panic on in the world of colds and flus so I wangled the rest of surgery off," he smiled tiredly. "Good to see you," he said, pushing the front door closed as Mycroft stepped into the kitchen. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Bathroom," Mycroft said, eyes on John in an attempt to read him.

"Oh, is he OK?" John frowned, standing impatiently in the doorway to the kitchen whilst Mycroft worked on fixing himself, John and Sherlock a cup of tea.

"As OK as is humanly possible for Sherlock, yes." He looked up, his attempt at a joke, and smile menacingly at the Doctor. "Perfectly fine," he embellished on his reply at John's expression, "Taking care of his needs," he said and John noted the air of unease.

"Oh," John licked his lips, "He's keen." When they'd gotten home that night Sherlock hadn't really mentioned what had been discussed with the urologist. John had assumed he needed a day or so to process the information and then would tackle it head on; he felt both a pang of pride in Sherlock's determination to take yet another portion of his life into his own hands and a pang of worry at Sherlock's lack of knowledge so far on the entire procedure. "I'm just going to-," he gestured to the stairs with his thumb. "I'll be right back." Mycroft watched him walk away, almost running down the stairs, listening to his footsteps as they got quieter and then turned to mere echoes as he walked across the floor downstairs, his voice muffled below as he called out Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock?" John called, not entering the bathroom out of respect but loitering around outside, "You OK?"

"Fine," Sherlock's reply was quick and curt.

"Managing to do everything alright?" he asked, trying to screw his Doctor-head back on through the fuzz of his guilt and tension headache. "Need a hand or-?"

"No, I'm OK, just finished," Sherlock called back and appeared a moment or two later, toiletry bag on his lap and a flush to his cheeks but looking otherwise smug and John couldn't help smiling.

"You OK?"

"Stop – I'm fine," Sherlock nodded, "What are you doing home?"

"Headache," John shrugged, dismissively. "What's Mycroft doing here?" he frowned, following Sherlock across the floor to the locker on his side of the bed.

"New chair," Sherlock turned with a smile reminiscent of a child on Christmas morning. "It's upstairs, you didn't see? In the dining room," he looked up toward the ceiling, "It's strange – looks so different to this," he tapped his hands on the arm rests, "No rests for a start, the wheels kind of arch in and the back of the seat is lower…" he explained, "Coming up?"

"Yeah," John rubbed his head, smiling at Sherlock's excitement and watched him move away toward the lift. He took the stairs two at a time but not particularly at speed and braced himself before leaving the stairwell and stepping off into the hall, arriving at the top just as Sherlock led out of the lift.

Mycroft's head appeared around the dining room framework and he offered his usual sly smile in John's direction, "How's the headache, John?" he asked, sticky-sweet.

John nodded as he exhaled, "Pounding," he replied, his hands in his jeans pockets as he scuffed his feet across the floor to join them in the dining room. He watched with an unforced, wide smile as Sherlock moved with relative ease across into the new chair that seemed to fit his form like a glove. Just as John had insisted upon to Mycroft, the back of the seat was lower and stiffer, instantly offering Sherlock's back so much support he seemed to sit straighter and taller whilst his knees were held closer together by the more compact seat that supported his thighs. Without the armrests at the sides of the chair, Sherlock found it easier to move, his arms straighter and more relaxed as he pushed forwards and pulled back on the large, slanted wheels, turning with ease and precision. "Wow," he said on a breath out, leaning against the wall.

"Better for his posture?" Mycroft asked, looking to John for assurance.

"Definitely, look at him," he waved a hand in Sherlock's direction. "Much better."

"How does it feel?" Mycroft asked and folded arms across his chest as he watched Sherlock move.

"Free," Sherlock looked up, suddenly a bubble of confidence and his usual arrogance. "Independent."

"Keyword," Mycroft nodded. "Good. Very good, yes," He nodded again and dropped his arms, "Well as long as everything is in order I should be going." His eyebrows rose as he looked to John and the Doctor felt his face flush hot. "Sherlock," he nodded to his brother. "John."

"Bye," John nodded awkwardly, "Thank you -," he pointed toward Sherlock, "It's great." Walking past John, into the hall, Mycroft retrieved his coat and let himself out of the house without another word. Sherlock moved past John, into the kitchen, basking in the lighter feel of the chair.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his back to John but able to feel the Doctor's eyes on him, as he reached into the fridge to put away the milk where Mycroft had failed to clean away after making tea.

"Nothing – you just look happy," John said feebly.

"I am," Sherlock turned, "I slept OK, I feel – positive. It feels OK today."

"That's good," John said firmly, more guilt bubbling in his stomach at the words he'd uttered to Sarah. How could he consider leaving Sherlock? He was the same person, and this – right now – was a testament to that. Why would he leave?

"You don't seem happy, though," Sherlock moved closer to John and reached out his hands, initiating contact by laying both palms against John's hips. "Are you alright?"

"Yes – I'm fine, I'm absolutely fine." He pushed a smile to his tired face and crouched, transferring Sherlock's hands from his hips to his shoulders, " I love you," he reached up with both hands and moved forwards as he pulled Sherlock's upper body closer, kissing his lips softly. "I know sometimes I get stroppy and you get argumentative, but I love you."

Sherlock allowed John his kiss, pursing his lips to meet John's before reaching up and cupping his fingers around John's wrists, not pulling him away but definitely asserting authority. His eyes flicked across John's face as the doctor moved back slightly; he read every inch of the emotion in John's eyes and felt his heart beat a little quicker for it "I know," he finally nodded and held John's left hand to his mouth, pressing his full lips against the heel of John's palm before dropping his hands and pushed his dark curls from his face. "Can you help me?" he asked, moving past John back into the hall. "My back's hurting – will you do something?"

John smiled, "Sure," he nodded, licking his lips and drying his eyes with his fingers. "Go and lie out on the sofa, I'll come and give you a massage,"

John lulled Sherlock into a light sleep when they settled in the lounge; Sherlock's muscles were tight and cramping beneath John's fingers and within a few moments his skilled hands had relaxed the Detective so much he'd drifted off. John reclined into the sofa with his phone in hand, toying with the idea of calling Sarah. He threw his phone to the coffee table and lifted Sherlock's outstretched legs up onto his lap, massaging against the muscles of each calf with skilled fingers, deeming it a better form of manipulation for his limbs than leaving him untouched at all.

His thumbs pressed hard into the tight calf muscle and rolled inward, stimulating blood flow, and felt his body reacting once again the closeness he shared with Sherlock. It was getting to be an issue; prior to the shooting he could stand as close to Sherlock as he liked and, save for exceptional days, not be constantly aroused by it but since the accident – with the knowledge, he supposed – his body seemed to want more of Sherlock than it was allowed. Selfishly, he pulled Sherlock's legs closer into his body, resting across his groin area as his fingers continued to press into the pliant muscle beneath them.

The heaviness of Sherlock's limbs against his enclosed erection was perilous. He sucked in a breath and pushed Sherlock's legs down, standing from the sofa and eased the detective in a more comfortable position before turning into the bathroom. It was moments like this that the open-plan style of the home was a bit of a bug. He turned on the shower, making sure it was hot and flowing down on his toughest jets before he stripped and stepped inside. He needed to wash the morning away and he needed to feel hands on his body, anywhere on his body, even if they were just his own. Wrapping the fingers of his left hand around his penis, he moved in slow broad strokes across the already achingly hard muscle, feeling it tighten further beneath his fingers. He braced against the wall of the shower with his free hand, supporting his needy weight as slow shudders racked his bones as he continued to masturbate.

His rhythm quickened as his hips began to move, forcing him to fuck his hand quicker than his wrist was able to move. Thrusting against his hot, shower-wetted hand, he threw back his head in a groan and cried out in pleasure as he ejaculated, thick spurts of semen coating the wall and his fingers in an intense orgasm that hadn't been experienced in a long time. His body continued to jerk, hips forcing his cooling penis through the slackened loop of his fingers, riding out every last thread of pleasure they could claim. He rested forwards, head on the tiles and legs feeling limb, his body glistening from the water and the sheen of sweat that somehow still managed to cling to his skin.

He directed the shower head, powering away his mess with the jets of water, and then straightened it out again to tumble down across his body. The heat was thick and scalded his skin, burning off the morning with Sarah and the guilt, washing away the pain of telling Sherlock and the look on his face, bit wouldn't take it all away, not completely. It left enough behind to keep John in the memory of what was important, of who was important and just how sorry he was. He turned the water off some ten minutes later, feeling the air cool almost instantly, and stepped out onto the floor dripping wet. He reached for a towel and wrapped himself in it before reaching for a smaller one to dry off his upper body and hair. He felt refreshed, sated and sleepy, and determined to make sure he kept affirming to Sherlock how sorry he was and that he would never let anything like that happen again.

Turning toward the mirror over the sink, he jumped out of his skin as he caught Sherlock in the corner of his eye. Half-smiling, the detective was in the doorway with his curls mussed from a short nap and his face puffy and wrinkled from his position on the sofa. Calming his heart, John smiled, "Good sleep?"

Sherlock nodded, licking his lips, and moved into the bathroom a little further. Inhaling, John dropped the towel in his hands into the laundry basket that sat beside the sink and sunk down, keeping his towel up with one hand and cupped Sherlock's cheek with the other, bringing him close for a kiss. "Love you."

"Promise?" Sherlock asked with the weakness and innocence on his tired face hitting John's heart painfully. Vulnerability was always more present in Sherlock when he was tired – it seemed that fatigue and insomnia drew out the person he would be beneath the brilliance and social ineptitude.

"Sherlock I promise, I love you." He kissed Sherlock's full, pouty lips again and rested his wet forehead against the curls on Sherlock's brow. "I promise."

Sherlock nodded against John softly, so innocent, and reached up with both hands passionately cupping John's cheeks to turn their soft kiss into something deeper. His tongue explored John's mouth familiarly yet coyly and his fingers twisted into the length of hair at the bottom of John's neck. His at Sherlock's taught jawline, John's eyes closed to the kiss, his knees bending to lower him further as he allowed the kiss to push deeper, tongues duelling for dominance.

Despite the headiness, John pulled back with a pant and locked Sherlock's eyes with his own, "Are you sure?" he whispered hoarsely.

Sherlock's nod was small but honest, "I want to make you happy."

"You do-," John said firmly, "You don't have to have sex with me to make me happy, Sherlock – you make me happy just being here. It makes me happy just having you."

Sherlock smiled but shook his head softly, "No, really – I want to. I don't know…how, but I want to."

"OK," John smiled, crushing Sherlock's lips a moment before standing up. "Bed?" he asked, one eyebrow cocked, and smiled as Sherlock nodded as though this were his virgin feat. John supposed it was; this was the first time Sherlock had wanted anything intimate at all and it was awkward and virginal. It was new and different and things would be done differently and Sherlock probably only be pleasured by way of kisses or upper-body erogenous zones, but it would be intimate and close and it was all John wanted. He wanted Sherlock, any way he was able to have him.

* * *

**My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	25. Chapter 25

Comfort was all John knew as his eyes opened to greet Sunday morning with a playful smile on his lips. His body was relaxed, his left arm draped over Sherlock at the waistband of his boxer shorts and his right up in Sherlock's hair in almost the exact position they'd fallen asleep, post-coital exhaustion having been a long time coming but definitely appreciated. He twirled the fingers of his right hand, stretching out a particularly buoyant curl on Sherlock's head and then let it go, watching it coil back up and rest in its habitual silky, natural perm on the brunette's crown. Pushing his chin forwards, John placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead with gentle precision, aiming for not waking the still-sleeping detective, but his efforts were in vain as sleet grey eyes glanced up at him as he pulled his head back to its comfortable spot on the pillow.

Smiling without teeth, his face still sleepy and soft, John's brows rose happily, "Good morning," he whispered, fingers of his left hand trailing tenderly up and down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock didn't reply, but breathed in and out in a soft, relaxed sigh by way of expression and shuffled his head a little closer to John's. "Sorry about…"

"No, don't even start. It was lovely," John pulled Sherlock closer by dragging his hips in against his own as they lay face to face, Sherlock a little lower down the bed to allow him to nestle his head in the crook of John's neck, against the pillow. His hand rested on Sherlock's bum, even now still unable to get used to the feeling of padding where he'd once felt pliant skin beneath the material of his underwear, but it was Sherlock and it was fine. He buried his nose in Sherlock's curls, smelling the scent of Sherlock below the aftershave and deodorants that was so familiar and comforting.

"Don't want to move," Sherlock said in a moment of sentimentality, his breath warm against John's right shoulder.

"I'm afraid we kind of have to because I need to pee and you need a shower," he smirked and felt a breathy laugh from Sherlock power out of the detective's nose and beat warm against his neck. "Five minutes more, though, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, curls brushing John's stubbled chin. "Yep," he popped against John's neck, lashes fluttering against the Doctor's skin.

John let his eyes close as Sherlock's hands rested against his chest as he pulled him closer. Comfortable, close, intimate and soft and it was all John needed, all Sherlock seemed to need, to rid themselves for the issues of the day before and come back to being together, being strong for each other and learning to move on. John hoped that Sherlock now understood why what had happened with Sarah had happened at all; John was craving comfort from Sherlock, from anyone, in the place of all he comfort he was giving out to Sherlock. Wordlessly, Sherlock prayed that John understood that he cared, even if he couldn't say it, and that despite the difficulties and changes in the way things were, he loved him as much – if not more – as he ever had.

But relaxing for 'another five minutes' as planned was thwarted with a sharp knock on the front door above them. Sherlock groaned into John's neck and the smile on John's lips was both playful and resigned. "I'll get it," John patted his hand on Sherlock's bum and then dragged himself free of Sherlock's body. "Want to throw yourself in the shower? I'll be two minutes."

Sherlock waved his hand at John in sleepy response as the blonde pulled on yesterday's jeans and a jumper discarded on the end of the bed and padded, bare footed, up the stairs the hallway. Desperate for the loo, he hoped it was cold callers for the ability to send them packing immediately. He unhooked the bolts and locks and slid the latch down before pulling the door back enough to poke his head out. His sleepy face became one holding a deep frown as he met a rather tired looking Lestrade on his doorstep. "Greg," He straightened up, pulling the door open wider to allow the DI in.

"John," he exhaled, biting his lip. "Got a minute, both of you?" he asked, standing awkwardly in the hallway with his hands thrust into his coat pocket.

"Sure," John nodded, frowning deeply, "Take a seat in the dining room I'll just-," he gestured over his shoulder before sprinting down the stairs. "Sherlock?" he called out as he reached the bottom, eyes on Sherlock sitting up on the edge of the bed. "Lestrade's here, he looks pissed off." He bit the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, tired eyes wide and innocent, and echoed John's frown. "What's he want?"

"No idea," John said, disappearing into the bathroom to take care of business. He appeared a couple of minutes later and watched as Sherlock dressed with his self-mastered efficiency. "Need a hand?"

"No," Sherlock snapped, easing into his dark jeans. The sharp edge to his voice caught John slightly, a stark contrast to the gentle, husky sleepiness they'd had moments ago. He watched awkwardly, standing on the side lines, as Sherlock dressed and moved with a little exertion across into his chair. He was a little breathless, something John knew would ease with physio but daren't say a word, but ultimately triumphant. "What?"

"Nothing," John shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Ready?" Nodding, Sherlock lead John on, eager to find out why Gregory Lestrade was poking around and on a Sunday of all days. They both knew that it had to be official and it instilled a nervous fluttering in their stomachs as joined the DI in the dining room, John branching off a moment to make tea before they settle uneasily at the dining table with expectant gazes in Lestrade's direction.

"Well?" Sherlock griped, unable to take the silence.

"Your brother's fingerprints were found after another sweep of Northumberland Street," Greg said painfully. "Not just isolated, either, they're everywhere. It took a while to match them; given his status he's entitled to strict security but it's not completely restricted. The results were ran twice," he pushed forwards a folded slip of paper, printed out from the Yard which clearly stated the matches with a picture and details for Mycroft.

"You can't…" John frowned, a nervous smile of disbelief on his lips, "You're not saying he fired the gun?"

"Of course not," Greg snapped in quickly, "We couldn't know that. But his prints are at the scene, Sherlock and unless he was there with you and John prior to our involvement, then he has to be treated as a suspect and he has to be questioned."

John flicked his eyes over the Detective and he could tell he was thinking deeply – knowing Sherlock, John imagined he was stuck between the idea of running from this or tackling it head on himself. He hoped he'd do neither and simply allow Greg and the rest of the team at the Yard to handle it themselves. This was too close to home.

"I don't buy it; Mycroft practically is the British government and he is far from stupid. Had he been there, he'd have been a stickler for ensuring nobody knew about it." Sherlock met Greg's gaze. "Computers lie."

"Not this time, Sherlock." Lestrade shook his head, brows rising. "Your brother was there and I need to know when and why."

"So go and question him," John submitted.

"And have myself throw to the lions, I don't think so. He'll see me sacked, he can do that." Greg huffed, taking the paper back. "I don't know why he was there, if it's to do with the shooting or the initially case, but the fact remains that he was there."

"You want us to talk to him?" John asked, leaning back in his chair at the realisation, shaking his head.

Greg nodded sheepishly, "It'll be official, we'll wire you up, use you as a proper mole not just have you swan in and ask questions. It'll take a day or so to organise, we'll have the team outside-,"

"No," Sherlock shook his head firmly, "I'm not doing it and neither are you," he looked at John. "Your computers are wrong, Lestrade. Mycroft is not involved in this case, not like this, not as a suspect. You've got it wrong."

Greg closed his eyes on a deep exhale, "We haven't got it wrong, Sherlock; he was there." Sherlock dragged away from the table, his jaw firm in anger, and stormed toward the kitchen. Greg found his resolve remained and he was on his feet and behind the detective in seconds. "This is inescapable, Sherlock – your brother is involved in this somewhere along the lines and it needs to be explained. It could be innocent, for God sakes, but we need to rule everything out. If you're not willing to talk to him for us, then fine, I get it he's your brother and that's just pushing it too far. But if you don't, I'll find somebody who will."

"You're looking in the wrong places, Lestrade!" Sherlock's temper clicked, "You're not even looking at the bigger picture. We were there for a reason the night I was shot – it's a terrorism threat, public safety. Why would Mycroft be involved with anything like that?" he shook his head, a sarcastic laugh escaping his chest in a bubble, "God, you never think. Mycroft's job is to protect and serve this country and yet you think he's involved with an attempt to destroy it?"

"Or you," Greg said what he'd been thinking, what John and Sherlock knew he'd been thinking, and tried hard not to regret it.

"Mycroft didn't shoot me," Sherlock's voice was dangerously low, so quiet his anger seemed immense. "He didn't do this; he's not involved in this. If those are his fingerprints there, then there is another reason for them – it's not Mycroft." He shook his head, almost frantic, "You're barking up the wrong tree, as usual, Lestrade. He's not to blame for this and if you'd open your eyes, you'd know it!"

"Tell me then, tell me how you know so I can see it?" Greg asked, crouching down in front of Sherlock, and took him by the shoulders, "Give me a reason why you know and, like always, I'll believe you."

Sherlock stared back at Greg uneasily and shook his head, shifting his arms until Greg let go. "I just know!"

"Yeah well," Greg rose to his feet and rubbed the back of his neck in exasperation, "Even the great Sherlock Holmes just knowing isn't enough. Sorry," he held out both hands.

"He's got a point, Sherlock," John stood beside Greg, hands in his pockets, "How much do you really know your brother?"

"John," Sherlock's creased.

"I'm sorry," John shrugged, "But he _has_ got a point – you don't have any idea what he really does, what he's capable of. I'm not saying he's responsible for the shooting, but can you be sure he wasn't involved in the original case and tried to cover it up? It's possible he was doing a bit of digging himself at Northumberland Street, to work out what happened to you, yeah, but it's just as plausible that he's involved somewhere along the line," he said the last words calmly and slowly, taking in the anger on Sherlock's alabaster face.

"No John, he doesn't have a point," Sherlock spat. "The point is you're looking for somebody to lay the blame on the close this case and earn you your stripes," he turned to Greg, "You're not pinning anything on Mycroft because you can't forge evidence and you cannot make me or anyone else interrogate him; you have no grounds to call him in for questioning nor to send somebody in as some sort of crude honey trap." He growled low at the DI.

"I'm not trying to trap him, Sherlock; his prints are at the scene of a crime and, from the direction of the bullets that put you in this chair, the scene of an attempted murder." He stared at Sherlock with a stern face, "If he's innocent, it'll be clear. If he's not then I want to know what he did, when and why."

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose in a sarcastically vicious laugh and shook his head, "You don't get it. Mycroft has the world in his palm, why would he stage a gang of terrorists to cause national damage when he could do it himself and cover it up effortlessly? He can make things disappear – my first two drugs charges disappeared, Lestrade and you know how. He's not stupid enough to leave fingerprints at the flat that's being used by an anonymous ring of terrorists and even less stupid to leave his prints at the scene of an attempted murder – if that's even what it was." He licked his lips, trying to calm but to angry to asses himself. "Mycroft didn't shoot me, he isn't involved with the terrorist ring and he is certainly not stupid so who do you think has got things wrong, Lestrade; Mycroft or Scotland Yard?"

John hissed a breath and let it roll from his tongue slowly. "Look," he held out both hands to push the atmosphere down, "We appreciate you coming here and telling us, really. I'd rather here it from you than Sally or Peter, so thanks. But this is getting out of hand so we need to calm down. Sherlock," he looked at the Detective sadly, "You can't fake fingerprints – he's obviously been there."

"Actually you can," Sherlock shook his head, "Fairly simple process of obtaining somebody's prints off of an item of theirs and transferring the indentations…" he stopped. "Fact is, it is possible and it's a possibility here. I don't trust your lab reports, Lestrade."

"Molly," John licked his lips, "Can we run the prints with her? You trust her, Sherlock?"

Greg's face folded, "What? Look I don't have time for arsing around with a pathologist at the hospital to satisfy your anger." He thrust his hand toward Sherlock. "And I don't even know how sophisticated the equipment is at the hospital, can they even run a check on prints?"

"We could try?" John shrugged, "Look," he sighed, "I'm just trying to get a balance. I trust your word, Greg, you know I do, but look at him – he's practically vibrating and he's never trust your forensic team. Give us a day, two at the most, let us take the evidence to Molly Hooper – if it doesn't come up different, if there's no way of doing it we'll give up, we'll trust your word." Sherlock scoffed but John stared at him sharply. "Greg, please?"

Sighing, Greg shook his head with eyes closed tightly, "Two days, maximum." He said firmly, pointing a finger at John, then turned to Sherlock. "No tampering, no hiding evidence. Clear?"

Sherlock nodded, "Thank you." He said, softer than either John or Greg had expected, wholly sincerely.

* * *

It felt good to Sherlock to be in a hospital and not be there as a patient. The past month had been full of hospital visits, none of which filled him with determination and the thrill of a case like this one did, despite it being so close to the bone he could almost feel it grate against him. He led John through the maze of corridors and navy doors until they reached what was, to all intents and purposes, Molly's office when not slicing bodies in two. It was here that Sherlock faltered a little and John didn't miss it.

"You OK?" he asked, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder softly. The stop he came to was so sudden that the bag on the back of Sherlock's chair rocked with a scuff against the back of the seat, fabric on fabric as it swung to a stop. "Sherlock?"

"Fine," Sherlock nodded, swallowing so thickly it rocked his Adam's apple more slowly than John had ever witness of the Detective.

"We don't have to do this, you don't have to I mean, I can go in there and talk to her." John gestured to the closed door of the small, boxy room.

"I'm fine John, leave me alone." Sherlock rolled back his shoulders until John moved his hand, holding up both palms defensively.

"Fine, after you." He nodded toward the door before leaning forwards to knock it gently.

There was shuffling inside, followed by a sweet-voice muttering expletives, before a feminine clearing of the throat, "Yep?" Molly called out and John pushed down the handle, pushing the door open with his shoulder and holding it wedged to give Sherlock a wide enough access into the room.

"Hey, Molly," John said gently as the small features on Molly's face stretched wide in delighted shock, looking to John as though she were unsure whether to stare lovingly and tearfully at Sherlock or to grin cheekily in John's general direction and then begin to rabbit on nervously with a stream of love and hugs and plenty of 'I hope you're doing well' or 'nice wheels'. "Molly?" John frowned, waving his hand in her face.

"I think she's going to fall down." Sherlock said with such seriousness behind the joke it was almost conceivable.

"Wow," Molly smiled brightly, a nervous hand reaching up to fix her hair that looked just fine as it was, pulled back from her face. "Goodness," She breathed out anxiously.

"It's good to see you, Molly." John said with a smile.

"Good to see you," She echoed, point to them both with open arms. "You look so well," She turned on Sherlock, "It's good to see you…moving about," She babbled, "Nice wheels." Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment in time with Sherlock's sigh and eye-roll whilst John found himself unable to hide his mirth.

His teeth bore in a giggling smile, John reached out and touched her arm as she shook nervously, "It's fine, Molly. Sit down. We're actually here to ask a favour."

Explaining in as much detail as possible without delving too deeply, John and Sherlock relayed what they needed from Molly with gentle voices and coaxing smiles. It was not necessary, Molly was willing to offer up as much help as Sherlock would need and if it helped John in the meantime then that was double the good karma, right? Clued up on what they needed from her by way of assistance, she guided them out of the office and toward the lab with a spring in her step. It had been a month since Sherlock had been here, longer really as his cases had kept him out of Bart's before the shooting, and she was walking on air to have him back here. She didn't patronising by showing him the way around a hospital he knew like the back of his hand, but it did cross her mind quite profoundly as to how, exactly, he was going to work around the rather high workstations.

The lab was dark but for a few glowing lights on machines that John had never really grasped the use of until Molly reached around to the wall beside the door and flicked on the over-head fluorescents. With an electrical buzz and a flicker, the room became awash with clinical light that, given time, would see all three of them fighting off a headache.

"I can run the prints through if you want…if you can't…" Molly fumbled, "…with it being…" she raised her arms up. "Oh, bugger." She rolled her eyes, her awkwardness unmissable.

Handing over the relevant documentation they'd obtained from Lestrade before heading to the hospital, John gave Molly a reassuring smile, "Thanks, that'd be great."

"I'm just…" Sherlock thumbed back toward the door, "I'll be back in a minute,"

John frowned but nodded, "Here-," he grabbed the door for Sherlock, letting him out without a glitch. "You've got your phone on you, right?"

"Yeah – text me if you need me. I've just got something I need to do." He offered a small smile of sorts to John as he disappeared down the corridor.

John let the door close and turned back to Molly with a brief smile. He hadn't known her long but wasn't naïve, he could tell where her affections and loyalties lay and he could also tell that she was somebody he could trust. Arms folded, he walked across the lab to her, standing back enough to give her space, and watched her work with a level of awe in his expression.

When she spoke first, a few moments later, John was somewhat surprised to hear more confidence and professionalism in her voice in the wake of Sherlock's absence. It seemed she really did love the Detective, turning into a pile of teenage goo in his presence and yet regaining her perfect, womanly composure when he wasn't around. "How is he?" she asked, glancing up momentarily from her work.

"Sherlock?" John rubbed his stubbled chin, "Doing better than I expected."

"He looks well," She smiled, looking back down again.

"Most of the time," John replied, breathily, wondering why answering her questions was so easy.

Pushing her hair from her eye with her wrist, Molly looked back up and directly at John again, "He looks sad, though. Like he's searching for something he knows won't come up. Maybe it's the case," she said softly, "Or maybe it's his old-self?"

Smiling sadly, John nodded, "Maybe,"

"And for what it's worth, if the prints come back a match through this run-through, I'm with Sherlock – I only met his brother once but I don't think he'd ever do a thing to put Sherlock in harm's way. Mr Holmes looks icy and steeled but he's not; you can't have grown up with a baby brother and not feel some warmth." She said innocently, eyes going back to her work and lips never parting again.

Molly's work took a lot longer than John had anticipated. He stood, loitering around her, flopped into a stool, fiddled with the internet settings on his phone, toyed with the idea of calling Sarah, sent a text to Sherlock (Where are you? What are you doing? Do you need me?) and then returned his eyes to Molly as she tutted and sucked at her teeth in concentration.

"We're really grateful for this, Molly." He said, quietly. "Whatever the results, I know that Sherlock will better trust your word than anything that comes up at the hands of Anderson," he sniffed.

"Anything to help," Molly said, distance in her voice as she concentrated on her work.

"Can I ask a bit of a personal question?" John pressed, licking his lips. It caught Molly's attention and she looked up, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

"OK," She nodded feebly.

Blinking, John sighed. "If you were me, in my shoes right now, what would you do?"

Molly's mouth twitched in the left corner before she replied, hands against the workstation to steady herself. "In regards to Sherlock?" she checked, receiving a small nod from John. "I'd do whatever it took to make him not be sad anymore. I would make him drop the investigation, and the police, make them leave it, because I wouldn't want to know and I wouldn't want him to know if it came to it that his brother was somehow involved. I'd probably mollycoddle him too much and get on his nerves which is where you're a better man than me," she smirked, eyes clouded. "But ultimately I think I'd love him more than I ever did because I knew he needed me more than he ever did, despite his capacity for never showing it." When she stopped talking, John noticed her eyes had misted up and tears were shining in her lashes. She inhaled sadly and then shrugged. "But what would I know?" she asked, "I'm a pathologist who's boyfriends are few and far between. The only person I ever loved has never loved me back and could never love me back so I could never be in your shoes, John and I could never presume to know what it's like to be in Sherlock's."

John watched her carefully, feeling bad for projecting his own uncertainty onto the poor woman. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" he held out his hand as she walked away from the desk.

"I'm going for coffee, can I get you anything?" she asked, robotically.

John kicked himself, "No, thank you. Molly, I didn't mean to-,"

"You didn't. I got a…thing…in my eye; it's fine. Coffee," she pointed to the door. "I'll be back in a minute."

The door closed behind Molly and left John feeling hideous. He should have known asking Molly for impartial advice in a moment of weakness was a bad idea – her loyalties most definitely lay with Sherlock and it was impossible to make her understand him, even more difficult considering she didn't know what had passed between him and the detective in the past few days. Resting his elbows on the workstation before him, he captured his head in his hands.

He waited in near silence for Molly's return, listening to the whirring of machines around him that, in all honesty, he had no idea what their purpose was. Part of him hoped the results would return and prove Lestrade wrong but the bigger part of him told him he could rely on Lestrade and his team almost fully and that there had been no mistakes made. He was dreading Sherlock's face, the bristling anger that was bound to consume the Detective, and most of all he was dreading what would follow. He reached into his pocket for his phone, sending another text to Sherlock in an attempt to work out where, exactly, he had gone and why it was taking him the best part of the last forty minutes.

**Where are you? Call or text, please - JW**

He still signed off "JW", he didn't know why, not least because his name was stored in Sherlock's phone. It seemed appropriate though, a grasp on whom he was before he loved Sherlock. Not that he missed his old life, God no, but it was a thread to the past, to his old identity; a memory. The reply text shot in almost immediately, Sherlock's dextrose fingers having always moved at break-neck speed.

**Conducting an experiment – SH**

John didn't reply, mostly because he wasn't sure he wanted to know deep down, and pushed his phone back into his pocket, sitting on one of the high-legged stools at the raised workstations, sitting in wait for Molly's return.

The machines buzzed and ticked until they didn't anymore, ending in a resounding bleeping on one of the computer screens. Glancing over his shoulder in search of Molly (Where the hell was she?) he slid off the stool and walked toward the computer. He wasn't technical or overly clued-up, but he could read and he wasn't prints were Mycroft's that that much was sickeningly clear. He reached for his phone again, eyes on the screen of the computer, and blindly tapped out a text to Sherlock.

**Sherlock, he was there. The prints are Mycroft's – JW**

As he forced his phone back into his pocket, hands shaking at the anticipation of his own fate as well as Mycroft's, John spun around in a nervous jump as the lab door opened and Molly entered, coffee cup in one hand a forced smile on her thin, mousy lips.

"John," She said carefully, letting the door close behind her. One eyebrow arched upward expectantly, "Everything OK?"

"The-the-the," John waved his hand at the computer and shook his head, trying to compose himself. He cleared his throat and began again, "The computer came up with the, um, the results."

"Oh," Molly half-smiled and approached the computer, hitting a few buttons with her free hand as she placed her coffee down and then assaulted the keyboard with both hands, graceful fingers flying over the keys. "Yes – um, well they're matching to the original results." She looked up at John, "They're definitely Sherlock's brother's." she nodded, a little sadly.

"Yeah," John nodded, sighing.

"I can tell Sherlock, if you like?" She offered and lifted her brows again quizzically.

A thankful smile played John's lips but he declined, "Thanks Molly but, I should," he bit his lower lip anxiously between his teeth a moment. "And thanks, for doing this. And sorry," he mumbled, "About putting you on the spot before."

Molly waved her hand and shrugged her shoulders, a moment of reflection flittering in her eyes, "It doesn't matter John. It never matters," she drew down the corners of her mouth. "I can ring Greg Lestrade if you like, I can let him know the results if you want to find Sherlock and go and do…whatever it is you need to do?"

John drank her in with his eyes and wondered what he or Sherlock had ever done to warrant her inexplicable kindness in the face of her own feeling. Stepping forwards, he placed his hand on her arm and crouched slightly to kiss her cheek. As he stepped back, he saw slightly unsure tears glistening in her eyes, "Thank you, Molly."

John left the lab, feeling emotions he couldn't quite discern, and all but walked into Sherlock who was heading his way. "You're certain?" Sherlock asked, halting. "The prints; you're certain?"

Nodding, John inhaled deeply and let it out slowly before finding himself able to speak. "Looks like Anderson and the team got it right after all," he pushed his hands into his jeans pockets. "Where were you?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Doesn't matter." His eyes rolled. "We need to talk to Mycroft, get to him and get the truth before Lestrade wades in. Mycroft is clever, John and painfully careful – there's a reason why those prints were traceable. Either it's deliberate, or it's false."

"His fingerprints, Sherlock," John shook his head, "It's not false – they're his. But you're right; you should talk to him before Greg." He drew one hand from his pocket to nervously scratch the back of his head. "Can you manage?"

"No, not me, you too," Sherlock pointed an accusing finger in John's direction.

John huffed in a breath, "I'm not sure I'm high on your brother's list of favoured visitors right now, Sherlock. We may be working through the Sarah-thing but he won't be." John watched Sherlock's back tightening, pulling him up straighter in his supported stance, at the mere mention of Sarah Sawyer's name. "I'm just not sure he's going to be forthcoming with me about information like this when there's the other day hanging over our heads."

Sherlock licked his lower lip, "That's for you to deal with; we sing in the chains we make, John and you bonded the links of this one all by yourself." There was a snap in his voice, a tone that showed emotion whilst his face was firm and unmoving. "He'll be at the Diogenes Club, we need to talk to him and it has to be now whilst the questions are swimming, John." He glanced around a moment and then reached up, touching his hand to john's elbow. "I need you with me – if I hear something I don't want to, I need to know you're with me."

John looked down at Sherlock then crouched, bending his knees, wanting to look directly into his eyes rather than down at him. "I'm always with you, Sherlock, through all of this," he inhaled through his nose noisily, "And if you need me here now, I'm here."

Sherlock nodded, "I do."

* * *

John couldn't come to terms with the silent eyes that pried as they moved through the grand, rich-mans-ego-stroke of a Secret Club. It wasn't as though this were his first of even fifth visit, because Sherlock made a point of storming in here to bug Mycroft when Mycroft had bugged him, but those who inhabited the rooms with their thick carpets and gentlemen's chairs never seemed to adjust to the curly-haired Holmes and his blond friend putting in an appearance, much less now the darker-haired man was somewhat shorter and more metallic than before. Stiffening his back to the eyes on him, he reached to open the doors for Sherlock in perfect silence and allowed the detective to precede him into Mycroft's grand office.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Mycroft asked without looking up from the papers on his desk. He knew, he always knew. "I suppose you feel somewhat more your old self, Sherlock," he finally glanced up, playfully devilish eyes set on his brother, "Back at Bart's, the thrill of the chase," his brows lifted. "What is it the dear DI has you searching for answers to this time?"

Sherlock stopped dead in front of Mycroft's desk and leaned in, eyebrows arcing upward and a sarcastic smile on his lips. He was going to assault this in the harshest way and hope for the best. "Hi brother," he said slyly and Mycroft's jaw twitched. "I was thinking about when we were little and you snuck into my room, broke up the experiment that had taken me two weeks to get right. Remember? The one on the window sill beside my dressing table, with the spider and the bleach," John frowned, assuming this followed a natural pattern in the boy's minds but felt utterly lost himself. "I knew it was you the moment I went into my room and found everything, even though when I asked, you blamed the cleaner."

"Is this preamble leading us somewhere more pertinent?" Mycroft asked, steepling his hands under his chin.

"I knew it was you because you left your mark; you wore your shoes into my bedroom after the new carpet was fitted and Mother had said we couldn't. Your shoes left their mark, their print," Sherlock's head tilted and John thought, for a moment, he'd caught up. "After that, whenever you snuck into my room you wore your socks to high your toes and never your shoes so there wasn't any prints. You pulled your sleeves over your fingers so I couldn't even tell on the shine of the doorknob if it'd be touched."

Mycroft straightened his back and dropped his hands in one movement. He was uncomfortable, even John could see it. "Whilst this is all very dear, Sherlock…"

"You've been to Northumberland Street, brother dear and you didn't pull down your sleeves." Sherlock's brow knitted together, the bridge of his nose wrinkling up. "Why?" he snapped, teeth gritted.

Mycroft gave a short, sarcastic laugh, "Ridiculous. Good attempt, I must say, your menacing eyes were particularly appealing and I like that you tripped the light fantastic down memory lane but, Sherlock my dear, sweet little brother, I think you have me confused with somebody else."

"The prints were ran twice, Mycroft." John submitted, arms folded, stood by the door for a quick getaway should he need it. "No mistake, no confusion; you were in that building."

"Scotland Yard never has been too reliable," Mycroft threw up one brow and rolled his eyes with half-hearted effort.

"And St. Bartholomew's too?" Sherlock asked, the expression in eyes matching his brother's though polar opposites in their meaning. "You were there, Mycroft, your prints are widespread, not just in one spot. Why?" Sherlock's tone lost its battling edge. "Tell me!" he demanded, sudden and sharp, loud and echoic, slamming his flattened palm down so hard onto Mycroft's desk it made the older man jump.

"Temper, temper," Mycroft hushed. "Take my word, Sherlock as I have told you many times over the passing weeks, I know nothing more. I was not in the flat on Northumberland Street, I have no reason to be." He rose to his feet and leaned over the desk, all but in Sherlock's face. "I was not there."

"You've got a tell," Sherlock said softly, childishly petulant, a finger rising up to poke Mycroft's brow. "Flicks up a little right in the very corner every time you lie – different to the one you had when you were younger, but still it's completely readable and very amusing," He licked his lips and arched his back forwards, hissing into Mycroft's ear. "Why. Were. You. There?"

Mycroft pulled back from his brother and their eyes locked in a battle of wits. Sherlock would look away first, Mycroft knew, he always did. It took a painful ten seconds, but Sherlock broke the gaze and his eyes fell to Mycroft's desk. It was, to John, as though a telepathic conversation had erupted between them and he stood, dumbfounded, as Sherlock's resolve seemed to crack under something as simple as a stare-down.

John exhaled loudly and stepped closer to Sherlock, a protectiveness bubbling in his stomach. "Mycroft – just explain. Your prints are at the scene. Nobody's accusing you of anything, we just want to be able to go back to Lestrade and tell him to quit the investigation because he's planning one," he warned. "Just explain why you were there, that's all we need. Your brother's on edge," he thrust a hand at Sherlock, "I am too. If I found out Harry had been in a place that could land her a suspect in a crime against me, I'd want to know exactly why she was there before I began blaming her for the worst case scenario."

"You don't honestly…?" Mycroft began, frowning at John. His head tilted, such a sinister movement, and his eyes focused solely on the Army doctor, "You are battling with your wits, Doctor Watson?" he spoke with sickening silkiness to his tongue. "You're considering the possibility that I, myself, fired the bullets that have permanently rendered my brother immobile from the waist down. You've pieced this together, rather usually for a pleb, that as my prints are supposedly at the scene and nobody else's have been traced, that it must have been I who fired the gun and that this entire thing has been staged by me in a fit of fraternal rage, am I right?"

John folded his arms across his chest and pursed his lips at the impossible cold reading.

Mycroft smiled, "Admirable," he nodded, walking around the desk. "Completely wrong, but an admirable effort I must admit. Surprised," he raised his brows, "Very surprised, though, in you Sherlock. You came to the same conclusion and yet you are in possession of a superior mind." He looked at John as the words came out. "Dear, dear Sherlock; this is very disappointing."

Sherlock rubbed his forehead with long fingers and exhaled a heavy sigh, "Mycroft stop it, and just tell me why you were there. I need to know, I have to know."

Mycroft crouched down, hands on Sherlock's knees and looked up into his face. John thought he'd never seen something so sentimental between the two of them in the entire time he'd known Sherlock. "Sherlock," Mycroft's words were silky but there sinister stab to his tongue had gone. This was loving, this was meaningful and gentle, or at least as gentle as could be for a man who didn't believe that sentimentality was a beneficial emotion. "I was not at the scene, I did not fire the gun nor did I fabricate any of this. I am hiding nothing and I am talking to you, brother to brother, I am not responsible for this." He pinched his hands against Sherlock's knees, fingers digging into the kneecaps so tightly his knuckles went white.

The frown on Sherlock's brow was deep, flicking between Mycroft's eyes and his hands on his legs, horrified by the actuality of his brother attempting to cause him pain and him feeling nothing. Sherlock raised his head, looking like a lost two-year-old at John.

"Alright, Mycroft, that's enough!" John waded in, hand on Mycroft's arm as if to tug him away. "What are you doing?"

Mycroft got to his feet and fixed his jacket; his face a little flushed from the exertion, and stared at John blankly. "If you don't mind, I have work to do; you may leave the same way you entered and in the same, silent manner."

John reached down with one hand, placing his fingers protectively on Sherlock's shoulder, "Let's go-," he squeezed slightly. Sherlock seemed dazed, thrown off by his brother's manner, and nodded without words, eyes wide and Bambi-like, and led John from the office in silence. John couldn't even bring himself to offer another word to Mycroft, not even in anger and disgust, and simply glared at him, shaking his head, before following behind Sherlock.

He wasn't sure what had happened, not really, he assumed it was more of that telepathic stuff that, not being a Holmes, he wasn't privy too. But whatever it was it had unnerved Sherlock and considering how much of a task it was to throw the Detective, it worried John that what lay ahead would not be pleasant.

* * *

**My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	26. Chapter 26

**A new chapter! All new, no repost, no rewrite, just NEW! I am so happy and I hope you are too. And it makes me a poet! haha  
New! :)**

* * *

John followed Sherlock from the Diogenes Club, landing into the streets cool breeze and taking a deep breath instantly. He watched the curly-haired man a moment, unashamedly worried after the events in Mycroft's office, not that he could fully understand what it was; some kind of power play, obviously, but for what gain at all? Was he testing to see if he was faking immobility? "Sherlock, are you OK?" John asked, burrowing his hands into his coat pockets.

"I'm fine, fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock's brow furrowed and he looked up at John, eyes widening a little, face considerably paler than John would have thought possible for the alabaster tones of the Detective's skin.

"What was all that? Grabbing at you, the intellectual war…" John scoffed.

"That was Mycroft lying." Sherlock gripped the wheels of his chair.

"So you believe he was there now then?" John asked, stepping in closer to Sherlock as a suited man carrying a briefcase walked past.

Sherlock shook his head, sniffing as his nose ran against the cool air. "No – but he knows who was."

"Sherlock; his fingerprints are all over the place." John groaned. "He was there."

"Mycroft practically _is_ the British Government, John. Anything you can think of from your Sci-Fi movies, I can guarantee he's already overseeing in terms of weaponry and espionage." Sherlock sniffed again and glared at John, "…I've ransacked his office often enough to know that it is possible to duplicate fingerprints, at least on a secretive, military and governmental basis."

"So somebody faked his prints without his knowledge?" John surmised.

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "_With _it."

John almost laughed, "So he knows somebody was framing him?" he shook his head in disbelief. "That's fucked up, even for your brother."

"No!" Sherlock grumbled, exasperated. "Think! He knows that his prints are at the scene but he wasn't there, whomever it was that fired the shots was owed a favour by Mycroft but the shots weren't for me, they were for Lestrade."

John's brow furrowed deeper, "How…" he breathed out, "How could you even know that."

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock's brows hitched up and he pushed the wheels back, turning the chair. "We need to go talk to Lestrade."

"We can't, not now; he's got that meeting with Gregson about another case he's working on." John shook his head, "Can we just rewind a minute and will you explain to me what hell is going on here, because I have no idea."

"Later," Sherlock began powering forwards, "We need to get a cab home and I need to borrow your laptop." Baffled, John followed at a jog behind Sherlock, completely lost and bubbled with anger at the same time and desperate to understand what was whizzing through Sherlock's head. Were they still in danger? Was Lestrade?

Helping Sherlock out of the cab once they reached Lisson Grove, John thrust the fare at the driver and edged toward the gate with Sherlock at his heel. "Are you going to explain this to me at all?" he asked, unhooking the gate and swinging it open, holding it fixed until Sherlock was in the front garden.

"Once I have everything, yes." The Detective nodded. "Have I ever left you out completely?"

"Plenty of times," John nodded. "Look, I know Mycroft's family but…I don't want you taking on too much. We're just getting into a routine, just getting used to things and you're only just getting stronger. I don't want that jeopardised, especially when you're not on any physical therapy programme to help you adjust to the activity."

"Ah…" Sherlock grinned, pushing the key fob into the lift, "I've got that covered."

John paused on the steps and his eyebrow shot up as he looked at Sherlock, "You've got it covered?" he asked, sarcasm rife.

"Yep," Sherlock nodded confidently as the lift jolted and rose up steadily.

"Spit it out then," John said, hovering on the top step in wait for Sherlock.

"At the hospital," Sherlock began, "When I left you with Molly? I went to speak to some people. Occupational Health – with you being a doctor – will be more than happy to supply supports, exercise plans and weights for at-home therapy." He looked across to John, his fingers working with the key to free him from the lift, and the smiled. "You could look a bit happier."

Catching his frown, John licked his lips before responding, "Well you used your initiative, that's great but…"

"But what, John?" Sherlock snapped, "You said you'd do this, so that I could do it at home, with you, and not with somebody I didn't know in some hospital outpatient centre."

"But nothing," John shook his head, taking the keys from his pocket to unlock the front door. "I'm just surprised, I suppose. I kind of expected you not to bother and just wallow a little more, to just work on your own ability."

"I don't want kidney stones or sores or weakening in what muscles I do have that are strong enough," Sherlock said, tetchily, following John into the house with a slight bump over the top of the ramp. "And if anyone's going to be poking and hauling at me, I'd rather it was you than somebody I don't know."

Stopping in the hallway, halfway through removing his coat, John looked at Sherlock with seriousness in his eyes, "I know." His voice softened. "I'll make sure everything gets sorted and we'll start right away, OK?" Sherlock's lopsided smile tugged up and he nodded, reaching up to unfasten his jacket. "Laptop's on the table," John nodded into the dining room, "Get fixed up on there and I'll put the kettle on, then I want you to tell me everything you've got so far."

John joined Sherlock in the dining room a few moments later with a cup of tea for them both. He placed Sherlock's mug down beside the whirring laptop and took the seat opposite to allow him to at least study the Detective's face if he wasn't going to get any words out of him. Taking a slow mouthful from his tea, John checked the time on the wall clock and waited a few moments before disturbing the quiet. "Want to stand for a while?" he asked, the silence too thick and the inability to read Sherlock's mind about the entire thing making his brain itch. It was just something to say.

"I need to concentrate on this, John." Sherlock responded robotically, eyes on the screen of the laptop and fingers jabbing at the keys manically.

"And what exactly is _this_?" John asked, bringing his tea cup to his lips again. "You can concentrate and stand, you know," he submitted as an afterthought.

"John," Sherlock groaned, finally looking up and meeting his partner's eyes. "This is important. I need to look into this and be sure of what I think or things could get worse."

"I get that, sort of," John rolled his eyes, "but tell me where you're at so I can at least half understand what's happening."

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose and then pulled back his hands from the laptop keys, looking squarely at John. "Yes, the prints are Mycroft's, but at the same time they're not. They're a mutation, a copy of his prints."

"You think made by something cooked up between the government and military?" John asked, pacing the conversation.

Sipping his hot tea, Sherlock nodded, "Yes. I think Mycroft knows his prints are there and yet he can say he wasn't there and not be lying. I also know, from about three months back when I went through his office after he pissed me off, that there was a case against him that was trying to be settled without authorities getting involved too much, from somebody working within the Police Force. I didn't think of it before, which is _stupid_, because it makes sense. He had Mycroft by the throat, metaphorically, with something he knew but I didn't get what it was. If it's what I think it is, this guy had it in for Mycroft over him letting him down over whatever this _thing_ is. But I think Lestrade got caught up in it somehow. The shooter, with the copy of Mycroft's prints somehow adhered to his fingers by some gloves or gel or _something_ was in the flat the night we went around. They don't know me from Adam, or you, but if you saw somebody trailing behind in formal clothing with two, uniformed officers with them, you would assume they were a superior officer, right? Shooter thinks I'm Lestrade and there you go…bang, bang," Sherlock paused, taking a deep breath, and looked at John's dumbfounded expression.

John had to admit that, in some warped way, it all made sense. Sherlock was a victim of circumstance and Mycroft knew it well but Lestrade, due to Mycroft's covering up, was oblivious. Mycroft's guilt and wanting to help Sherlock above and beyond was therefore explainable by Sherlock's deductions and Lestrade being unaware and unable to trace anything made sense then, too. "But," John shook his head, "What about the original case then? Do you think Mycroft made it up, as in made up the notes of the case but had the people in mind who were threatening him with the lawsuit?"

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged, "That's what doesn't make sense. The case he originally handed us had nothing for us to go on, nothing at all, and he allowed us to involve Lestrade without a hitch. If it was the same people, he'd have been reluctant in case Lestrade found out more and endangered himself, I suppose. I don't know." Sherlock ran his hands through his curls.

"But he'll put you in danger? Nice." John scoffed and shook his head.

"We don't know anything for sure yet, John." Sherlock tutted, "Mycroft and I have our issues, yes, but he's my brother first and foremost."

"And he knew you could be in danger and let you do it anyway!" John's voice hitched. "He's a bastard, Sherlock, and he's lying to you if what you think is right and that makes him even worse." He tongued his cheek.

Sherlock drew down his mouth, touched by John's anger and care but confused and weighed down with all the possibilities and actualities of everything going on around him. He sighed out, exhausted and confused, and looked into John's eyes again. "Hungry?" he asked carefully. "Want to go out for an early dinner?"

John frowned, "I thought you wanted to get this done," he nodded at the computer.

"I need some air, an hour with you that isn't disrupted and some breathing space; Angelo's?" Sherlock said, closing down the lip of the laptop and steepled his hands against his lips, elbows on the table, fixing his eyes on John across from him. "Please?" he whispered, almost, sounding as though Mycroft's strange behaviour back at the Diogenes Club was just catching up with him.

John gave a soft smile, eyes gentle and nodded, "Yeah, c'mon, let's go."

* * *

**A little shorter than the others but I got a lot of Sherlock's theories about Mycroft's involvement in there which I hope make sense whislt still being muddled - it's supposed to be a little cloudy yet give little ideas away as though Sherlock's working through it. **

**This chapter HAS been proof read but you're likely to find tiddly mistakes, so I apologise. **

**Let me know what you think, guys and THANK YOU, THANK YOU for sticking around :)**

**(and if you're interested, I changed my Tumblr. I am now "ican-icant" **


	27. Chapter 27

The restaurant, as was typical of a Sunday mid-afternoon, was quiet but paced and Sherlock and John were welcomed in with a warm, graceful smile and an invitation to anything they wanted on the house. It was almost something they expected now, but it was never something they forgot the sentiment of – Angelo was grateful and John understood that. Still, the benefit of a free meal and a couple of drinks was something that always raised a smile.

Sherlock sat in something close to silence, usual when he was thinking deeply, and prodded his fork at a plate of cooling pasta, his eyes unfocused as he stared into space. Pushing a forkful of green beans into his mouth, John took a sip from his wine glass then purposefully clinked the base of it off Sherlock's water glass. Blinking, Sherlock looked up with a frown. "Penny for them," John smiled.

Sherlock set down his fork and reached for the water, taking a shallow mouthful. He swallowed as he shook his head, "Nothing I can really make sense of yet." He admitted. "Nice?" he nodded at John's plate.

"So far," John replied with a cheeky smile. "Yours, though I don't think I've seen you eat a bite."

"I did," Sherlock insisted. "It's good."

"You need to eat, Sherlock." John said carefully, not wanting to spoil the soft atmosphere.

"I am eating," Sherlock dug his fork into a shell of pasta and popped it into his mouth. "See." He spoke with the small piece shoved into his cheek. "Nice."

John rolled his eyes, smiling at the petulance and nodded his head as if to allow Sherlock away with his pettiness. "I was thinking in the taxi over," he began, covering his hand to his mouth as he spoke around a mouthful of food, "About doing physio at home."

"Um huh," Sherlock nodded, pushing another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

"We could set up one of the rooms upstairs as kind of a gym-thing." He suggested and held out his hand as Sherlock frowned, about to protest. "We could get a stair-lift installed, just hook it up on the main stairs and use one of the bedrooms. We could get it all set out – a bed, weights, hoist, mats, and if you get to it or what to try, we could get bars. I'm just thinking it's a room then we don't need to pack away like we shift your frames out or whatever; if it's constantly set up for use, there's no excuse for abandoning doing it every day. I mean initially we could start downstairs, you could lie on the floor on the duvet or something and I can work your legs, that'd be fine, and you can sit in your chair to lift weights for your arm strength. If you wanted, you could, I mean, you don't have to…"

"You're rambling." Sherlock licked his lips with a sleepy smile. "You're the doctor," he stated, "You're _my_ doctor and only a fool argues with his doctor."

"You argue with me all the time!" John swatted his hand toward Sherlock and the pair smiled. "This is good," John's tone softened, "This," he waved his hand between them, "Us, settling down, getting something back. I'm so proud of you – the odds have been stacked against you and you are soaring so high that I can't help but love you more."

"John…" Sherlock eyes flickered.

"I mean it and I want to say it," John reached across the table, touching Sherlock's hand. "You've learned so much, changed so much; you're stronger than I ever imagined you or I could ever be and I am, Sherlock; I am so proud of you. And now on top of your own issues, you're still working for Greg and worrying about him."

"Nobody else worries about Greg, not since the divorce, outside of work he doesn't have anyone but us to watch his back." Sherlock admitted, sentimentality creeping in a little.

"If your theory is right, about Mycroft and the shooting, will you tell Greg?" John asked, sipping his wine.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head, his mouth pulled downward. "Why would I want to do that? He'd be consumed with guilt and he shouldn't be. Moan as I do about Scotland Yard, Lestrade's been something to me that a father would be so a son. He's helped me through a lot, before you came along and since, I don't want him to hurt."

John's heart pounded in his chest at the gentleness of Sherlock's words. "I hoped you'd say that." He bit his bottom lip. He took a deep breath, the sighing inhale changing the atmosphere. Pushing back his chair, John rose to his feet. "Loo," he thumbed over his shoulder, "Won't be a minute."

Sherlock nodded with a small smile as John walked away. He placed his knife and fork across his half-prodded meal and picked up his water glass. He took a long mouthful, feeling a little overwhelmed by the emotional turn in their conversation. He glanced around him at the couples and a family in the corner of the restaurant, smiling as the little girl sitting beside her Daddy grinned at him brightly.

"Daddy, he's got a chair like Aunty Sarah!" She tugged at her father's sleeve enthusiastically.

Her father looked across at Sherlock, offering an expression that the detective interpreted as sympathetic, and shushed his daughter abruptly, "Don't stare, Stacey." He swatted her hand and tapped the table beside her plate, "Eat up."

Sherlock averted his eyes, watching as Angelo walked around behind the bar and offered Sherlock the exact same look that Stacey's father had. He felt heart beat quicken and couldn't decide if it were an approaching panic attack or just anger toward the eyes. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and thanked heaven for the distraction when his phone chimed with a text message in his pocket. He reached down, easing the device from his thigh pocket and examined the screen.

**Well? I take it there's no difference in what I told you and what Molly told you? In fact I know there isn't because I've already spoken to Molly. I'm sorry Sherlock but we're going to have to question your brother. – Greg.**

Sherlock's jaw jutted stubbornly, his teeth gritting together, the bottom jaw giving into its slight underbite at the expression. He breathed in through his nose and out again, sharply. He looked up as John approached and the Doctor immediately read the disgruntled expression. "Sherlock?" he questioned, eyebrows up his forehead.

"Lestrade wants to question Mycroft; he talked to Molly and she told him the results were the same." Sherlock thrust his phone at John and then unhooked the brakes from his chair. "We need to stop him; I need more time, John. I need more goddamned time!" he snapped.

"Alright, shh," John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, clutching the Detective's phone in the other. "Alright, we'll go to the Yard and talk to him. Be calm, OK? You flying off the handle won't change things or better anything. Don't be…you about this. Take a breath and do this on a steady mind, please?"

Sherlock glared at him but inhaled a breath – a calming approach? – and nodded in compliance. "OK." He agreed.

* * *

Lestrade had no time to think as the door to his office was thrust open and Sherlock powered in, John looking apologetic behind him and a pissed off Sally behind them both. The office outside was alive with whispers at Sherlock's presence and though he wasn't exactly happy to be barged in on, Lestrade said nothing to that effect. "Thanks, Sally," he waved her off and she begrudgingly left the room, closing the door behind her. "You can come in here shouting the odds all you like, Sherlock, but the evidence is there and it warrants bringing him in for questioning, no matter who he is or where his political standing." Lestrade spoke with seriousness and a no-nonsense tone.

"I know," Sherlock breathed and both Greg and John frowned in shock. "I know I can't stop you questioning him but I need you to hear what I think I know. Please?"

"Sherlock, I thought…" John began and Sherlock shook his head.

"Mycroft wasn't there, I can almost guarantee it. His prints have been duplicated by some manner of experiment, I don't know what. But I am certain that he knows _who_ was there. He knows." Sherlock spoke with resigned defeat. "I just want one thing."

Greg nodded, "Sure, what?"

"Let me be there, behind the glass, when you question him. I can't do what you wanted, with a wire and record his confession because I know there won't be one and…and he's my brother but I want to see what he does. I know when he's lying and I know when he's being completely genuine. We both know he's going to lie to you and try to put you along different lines, at least then I can tell you what you should take seriously or not afterwards." Sherlock asked with an edge of pleading in his tone that saddened John.

Greg looked at John a moment, then nodded squarely at Sherlock, "Of course." He replied, resigned.

"Are you doing it today?" John asked, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

Lestrade exhaled noisily, apparently thinking over his options. He pointed to Sherlock, "I take it you're working on some lead for this?" Sherlock nodded, "Keep going with it." he licked his lips then looked back at John, "We'll give it a couple of days, he's not stupid and he knows I'll come to you and that you'll come to me so we'll need to let the land settle, give him a bit of time to work things through because you know he's going to cook something up."

"Then why give him the opportunity to fish for defence?" John frowned, drawing out his hands and folding his arms across his chest defensively.

"For Sherlock," Greg responded, eying the Detective. "You're adamant he wasn't there but that he knows his prints are and you prove that?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded fervently.

"And you're mind's already working on why and how?"

John smirked as Sherlock nodded again, "Yes."

Tonguing his cheek, Lestrade nodded, pushing his jacket back as he rested his hands on his slim hips, "Right. Good, Tuesday then, OK? We'll send officers down on Tuesday and by then you need to have been back here with reasons and evidence of some kind, you hear me?" He jabbed his finger in Sherlock's direction. The detective's small nod ended the line of questioning.

John sighed, shaking his head into the thick atmosphere that hung over the office. He wasn't sure about this, about any of it; Sherlock should be at home working on himself, physio and counselling to try and right-side-up him again rather than racing across the city in an attempt to see his brother cleared of a crime it looked pretty-damn-likely he committed! John didn't want to coddle Sherlock, paraplegia didn't have to be the undoing of a life like anyone else's, but everything felt rushed and far, far too soon. He wasn't mentally ready for all of this, how in the Hell was Sherlock?

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Greg spoke up, edging behind his desk and sitting down, his gaze flicking between John and Sherlock respectively. "Finding out family have themselves wrapped up in something hurtful isn't easy. He can be a bastard, I know, we've had our run-ins, but he's your brother and I know this isn't an easy situation."

"I know he didn't do it, as long as we can get that in writing in your notes, there's nothing to worry about." Sherlock flicked his fingers together absentmindedly in his lap.

"And if we can't?" John spoke up, "Then what, Sherlock? If you find out he's lying, that he was there and he did do this, that your theories are wrong, then what? He'll go to jail."

"He won't, I won't press charges."

"The case is already moving, Sherlock!" John snapped. "If he is found guilty, it changes everything."

"He is guilty; he's bought us a house, John! He _is_ bloody guilty. But he didn't do it; he didn't shoot me. I'll prove it…I just need time and I need to know what he knows." Sherlock sounded wining, exhausted and emotional and John knew it would be a matter of time before they faced an angry meltdown or an embarrassing (for the Detective) flood of tears if they didn't settle this here and go home.

John inhaled and let his head lull back. He nodded slowly twice as he righted himself and exhaled loudly. "Alright, OK," he held out his hands in a stop-motion. "C'mon, let's go home, you look exhausted."

"I'm fine," Sherlock's jaw tightened and Lestrade watched them closely.

"Sherlock, you're pale, tired and angry and being here isn't the best place for that. Let's go home, take care of a few _things_ and try to relax. You dying of a heart attack is all I need right now." He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Please? Greg's doing what he can and we can't do anything standing here anyway."

"I've got it under as much control as possible Sherlock, honestly." Greg submitted. "Go, you need to take better care of yourself. Take it easy for a few hours."

"Stop it, alright? I'm not tired, I'm in pain, I'm not incapable and I'm not a bloody invalid." Sherlock snapped and John visibly winced. "You ruined a quiet morning after a night that had been a step forwards for me with all this, Lestrade," Sherlock edged forwards, pointing his finger at Greg accusingly, "You dragged me into this, _you_, so don't start with the holier than thou routine when things finally start to get a little deeper. This is my problem, my hurt, not yours, and you will _not_ shut me out of you, got that?" he slapped his hand down onto the desk and Greg barely flinched. He'd seen Sherlock recovering from drug abuse and high as a kite, anger and Sherlock went hand-in-hand in the initial period of the time he'd known the detective and was something he had learned to handle.

"Feel better?" Greg asked, flicking a pen between his fingers. Jaw tightened, Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose and then blew it out like a raging bull. He nodded sheepishly and relaxed back, examining his hands. "Good," Greg's voice sang a little, "Now get out of my office and go home, I'll call you tomorrow."

* * *

**It feels great to be back in the driving seat with this story, I've been out of it for so long and it's flowing again which is AMAZING. Thank you for the comments on the previous post, glad to know you came back - it was a real boost. I'm part-way through the next update, so that'll be up tomorrow, too. **

**Once again thanks to Hannah and Rasmus (though there's no medical jargon in this, they will always be my saving graces!) **

**Has been proofread but if you spot a mistake, you can let me know or you can just pretend it's not there. **

**Thank you, as always, you lovely people and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	28. Chapter 28

The taxi ride back to Lisson Grove was a quiet one. Sherlock stared out of the window whilst, sitting across from him, John's eyes were glued to Sherlock. John wanted to tell Sherlock to stop completely; he wanted to put his foot down, pull rank and order that the barely younger man cease and desist with anything to do with Detective work for at least a month. But how could he? Sherlock lived for his work, thrived off of it, and he only served to get deeper involved when a case had true meaning to him and what could be more meaningful than himself and his brother? John knew that, no matter what he said, he couldn't make Sherlock draw back and, as much as he wanted to, he would never ask him to.

"Stop it." Sherlock finally muttered as the taxi drew up at the set of lights just before the turning into Lisson Grove.

"Stop what?" John licked his lips and replied with all the nonchalance he could muster.

"Staring at me," Sherlock turned and set his wide eyes on John. "It's unnerving," he added with a slight frown to his brow. "And it makes me feel a bit scrutinised."

"As appose to being the one actually doing the scrutinising?" John quizzed, clasping his hands in his lap.

"Something along those lines that, yeah." Sherlock responded and something close to a smile drew up the left side of his mouth softly.

"You really do look a bit peaky," John submitted carefully as the taxi doors clicked and the engine charged as it pulled away from the lights. "Are you feeling OK?"

"A bit heady, perhaps I'm getting a cold." Sherlock dismissed, "It's nothing; I'm quite alright."

"It's been a full on day," John reasoned, reaching for his belt as the taxi turned into their road. "Perhaps all you need is to get home and switch off. Thanks, here's great," he called through to the driver, fishing in his jacket pocket for his wallet. "Hold still a minute," he placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the detective moving quicker than everyone else in a bid to get out of the taxi.

It took a moment for the ramp to be fixed into place – the driver seemed less inclined to help and more about sorting his fare and leaving – and Sherlock was rapidly losing patience. After a battle of wills, the ramp finally clicked open properly and John maneuverer awkwardly behind Sherlock, his hands twisted around the low seatback, to ease the chair onto the pavement: the only (and he meant only) downside John had noticed to Sherlock's new chair was that the lack of handles made assistance nigh on impossible.

John thanked the driver, though he was unsure why, and trailed a step or two behind Sherlock along the small stretch of sidewalk before they entered into the front garden and up, into the house. Once inside, John's entire body seemed to relax. He barely had his coat unfastened and his shoes kicked off before his limbs felt weighty and relaxed, the way one always felt when arriving home from work in the middle of winter to a toasty-warm house and a roaring fire with the promise of a wintery dinner and a cup of tea.

"Cuppa?" he offered, heading on socked feet into the kitchen. Still working on his coat, Sherlock simply nodded his reply at John. "Tea or coffee?" he clarified.

"Tea," Sherlock called out, hoisting his jacket from behind his back and hung it on the banister. He followed into the kitchen, loitering in the doorway. He watched John busy himself at the counter, dragging out teabags and mugs, clattering the draws and cupboard doors as he moved. "Answer me honestly," he called into the quiet.

"I always do." John said, without looking up, and flicked the kettle on to boil.

"Do you think he did it, in all honesty, my theories aside; do you think Mycroft is wholly responsible?" Sherlock clasped his hands in his lap, his hair mussed and his face pale and exhausted-looking. His eyes searched John as the doctor finally lifted his head to look at him.

Leaning against the counter, John crossed his arms over his chest as he considered his words carefully. He inhaled, let it out in a sigh and then shrugged his shoulders.

"I won't be mad." Sherlock said gently, "I want to know what you think."

"Honestly? I don't know what I think. I think it's ridiculous to assume your brother would shoot you, mostly because I can't think of a reason why he would, but there is so much evidence against him. And yet, I can't believe it was him. Do I think he knows who did? Yes, and I think he is hugely instrumental but I don't think it was meant for you. I think that you being the target was not the initial idea, but I don't have the brain like you do to figure everything out," he licked his lips and shrugged his shoulders again, "I can't think of motives like you can, but I do think your theory is the most likely scenario, right up until the faking of fingerprints – that's a bit elaborate, even for Mycroft."

Sherlock's expression didn't change; he looked neither pleased nor pissed off to hear John's opinion. The boiling of the kettle was a momentary break in the rising tension, but the moment John had both cups filled and the kettle back on the tipper, Sherlock's words tumbled from his mouth in an apparently unstoppable stream of babbling, semi-coherent words that stopped John in his tracks.

"I'm…out of my depth. My brain – won't – work." Sherlock slapped his hand against the side of his head twice. "I know what I want to think, what I want to make become the outcome but I can't see it or link it or believe any of it," he looked helplessly at John. "I'm angry at myself for being so _stupid_, for not knowing or being able to find out what's going on. He's my brother, I grew up watching him lie and cheat and learning to read him and at the moment I can't do it."

John opened and closed his mouth like a guppy. He didn't know what to say, how to appease him, and he didn't believe that anything he could say would work, anyway. He licked his lips out of habit and sighed out, lost for words.

"I'm not me anymore – it's all gone," he held out both hands in a pathetic, self-loathing crucifix and shrugged. "Nothing's working," he bit his bottom lip as he brought his arms back down. "Did they get the bullets out? Are you sure they got everything? Because I'm sure something's lodged in my brain and turned everything off. I can't think, there's no noise and when there is it's just the same, stupid thing over and over again. I'm just done, John. I mean it, I can't…I'm…." He froze. He shook his head and reached down to the wheels, moving himself backward out of the kitchen and eased toward the lift, ignoring John as he called him to come back.

"Sherlock, wait…" John padded behind the detective but was met with the closing lift doors. "Fuck." He hung his head; the lows he'd been expecting had come – out of the blue and so sudden and sharp it was like a shark bite – and John found that he, too, was completely out of his depth.

* * *

**You guys get back OK? This probably seems a bit sentimental, but I was worried about him. – Greg**

**Thanks Greg, you're not the only one. Got back fine but he's battling demons at the moment - JW**

**How'd you mean? – Greg**

**Bit of a meltdown when we got back, can't work his brain or something to that effect. I think we're in the early stages of what I expected outright – JW**

**Shit. Sorry. Is he alright? Are you? – Greg**

**There've been better days, I can say that much – JW**

**Is it safe to come over? I have beer. – Greg**

**How soon can you get here? Ha-ha – JW**

Phone abandoned on the sofa, John was surprised when he pulled open the front door to find Greg on the other side, fresh from work and carrying a blue-and-white bag containing bottles of lager. Part of him had hoped the DI would turn up whilst most of him had assumed that Greg was simply being conversational. His smile, half surprised and completely relieved, told Greg this in a moments glance.

"Letting me in, then?" Lestrade smiled lightly at the shorter man.

John rolled his eyes at himself, "Yes, of course, sorry – come in." He stepped aside, pulling the door wider as Greg strode in and pushed it closed with a muffled bang, slipping the lock across out of habit. "Sherlock's asleep." He nodded toward the stairs leading down, "Panned out on the sofa with some criminology bible and didn't get past the first chapter." He pointed Greg into the kitchen.

"How's he doing?" Greg asked, leading in, and placed the bag of cold bottles onto the counter.

"He's stuck on this idea of Mycroft and fingerprints, something," John waved his hand. "But he's sinking and I don't like it. This is angry and self-deprecating; the depressions he had before, the periods of lounging and moaning, I could handle – this is darker and it's kind of frightening." John said with his back to Greg as he sifted through the kitchen draw for the bottle opener. Turning around, opener in hand, he took in Greg's sympathetic expression and couldn't decide whether he loathed it or appreciated it. "I don't know how to help him; he was quiet all day but I didn't see this coming – not this fast or thick. It's just as though a switch went and he…stopped being able to pretend he was OK."

Greg took the opener from John and uncapped two bottles, handing one to the Doctor who showed him through into the dining room. "Can you get in touch with therapists at the hospital?" He asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down as John took the one opposite.

"Sherlock and a therapist, I can't see that happening." John took a sip of the ice-cold lager and sighed somewhat orgasmically at its cathartic effects.

Greg let a laugh run through his nose breathily brought his bottle to his lips, "No, neither can I." he conceded, "But it's worth looking into, if only to find out how you or I can talk to him."

John gave an unexpected laugh, "You?" He clapped his hand to his mouth, "Sorry, I didn't mean that to sound so…like it did. I just – you'd be willing to do that, to beat his inner mind out of him?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Greg shrugged his left shoulder, elbows taking his upper body weight against the table. "Sherlock was thirty one when I first witnessed him during an OD. I was called to the flat he had in Montague Street by his brother. When I arrived – without the team as it wasn't strictly our division – Sherlock was fitting. His hair was plastered to his face, his skin cracked, his lips bleeding and his body was jerking in so many tight, angled directions it was like a recreation of the Exorcist." He took a deep breath, eyes unfocused as he remembered, and John's mouth hung open slightly in shock.

"Shit…" he sighed, eyeing Greg and shaking his head in disbelief.

"We thought he was going to die, Mycroft and I. I held his head in my lap whilst Mycroft eased him into the recovery position but the fit didn't stop. I've seen drug addicts and ODs, but I'd never seen this before then. He was so close to frying his brain with whatever cocktail he'd taken. The fit didn't stop for ten minutes, ten, whole minutes. Mycroft and I just sat there, nursing him, sitting in the filth that was his home; needles, cigarettes…just disgusting, filthy chaos."

John took another sip of his lager as Greg did and waited, both loathing and needing to hear more. He didn't push or ask questions, he waited for Greg to go on his own steam. This was Greg's way of reaching out and connecting with John on a basis on anything other than professionalism.

"He was put into a medically induced coma for a week; when he was brought around again he couldn't use his left arm for about a month – he had intense physio to build up the use again, he was like a stroke victim. I locked the door two days after woke up, just went over and locked the door to the room Mycroft had procured," he paused a moment, sipped his drink and shrugged his shoulders, "I told him that he was going to talk to me, to tell me why, and until he did I wouldn't leave and neither would he."

John's brows rose up, "And it worked?"

"Four hours of silence, two of me talking at him and three of him breaking down and finally opening up; I got a bollocking for failing to show up for work but it didn't matter because he told me some of the things he'd been through, some of the reasons he allowed himself the weaknesses he did. He's…so enigmatic until you make him be honest and then he can't hide behind the coat anymore and he just, I don't know, kind of crumbles." Greg looked at John, mouth turned down, and shrugged his shoulders once again – it seemed like he couldn't make sense of it any more than John could. "He came to me a few times after that, would call me when he was feeling the itch, would work solely for me for hours on end. He slept on my sofa, he slowly came back to himself and then he knocked back again. But the thing is he came to me, he talked to me because I made him and that's what you have to do. Literally or metaphorically, John, you've gotta lock the doors."

Bottle between his fingers, wet with condensation, John nodded broadly at Greg's manner of trying to help. "Yeah-," he nodded, eyes wide and locked with Lestrade's. "I have, haven't I?"

Greg nodded, draining what remained in his bottle, "Bite the bullet, so to speak." His face fell but John laughed. "Sorry," he quickly mended.

"No, it's fine," John chuckled and waved his hand. "Truth is, it's good to talk, to laugh – I love him but the intensity gets a bit stifling. This is good-," he gestured his bottle at Greg, "Time out."

"How are you?" Greg asked with emphasis on the 'you'.

"I'm fine," John creased his face. "I have my moments of cloudiness when I consider throwing in the towel but I'd never do it. I love him too much to walk away when he needs me."

"You need time to get used to the new life though, John; space, your own grieving period." Greg said smoothly. "I don't know much about adjustments to things like this, but I know it's not easy. The divorce broke me; it's taken a while to get used to the differences. You've got to take care of yourself, as well as him."

It was late when Greg left. Where John had nursed two bottles over there few-hour session, Greg had drained four. John didn't judge him on that – the man worked hard and deserved the break. He placed the two, remaining bottles of lager that Greg had insisted he keep into the fridge and placed the empties into the bin. He fixed himself a slice of toast and ate it whilst he shuffled around the kitchen, filling and setting the dishwasher and washing machine respectively before cleaning down all of the counter tops.

Before he ventured back down to join Sherlock, unsure whether he'd be greeted with the Detective awake or asleep, he filled the kettle and brewed two cups of tea. He turned the kitchen and hallway light off with his forehead – both hands occupied by a mug – and walked slowly down the stairs to the basement, his socked feet silent on every step. The entire floor was dark but for the flickering of the television. The volume was way down low but not quite muted. Sherlock lay still, arms up by his face and mouth slightly open, still sleeping soundly on the sofa in the exact position John had left him in earlier, the sofas throw-over cast around his legs and tummy. His breathing was long, slow and deep and his eyes moved behind the heavy lids; he was dreaming and John couldn't help the fond, adoring smile that pulled his lips taught and brought a sympathetic, adoring frown to his brow.

Not having the heart to wake him, John slipped quieter still around the room, switching off the television – leaving Sherlock's tea on the table – and waddled across to the bed. He set his tea on the nightstand and stripped to his underwear before pulling on a t-shirt and loose pyjama pants. The room black but for the small stream of light that filtered through the high window, he climbed into bed and rested back on the headboard to drink his tea. He listened to Sherlock's soft, almost infantile snuffling breaths with a swell in his heart.

Whatever was going through Sherlock's mind – positive or negative – John was determined enough that moments like this, the soft, intimate, adored moments of closeness and love, would withstand whatever darkness fell over them. Whether Mycroft was guilty or not, if Sherlock was wrong or right, he'd be there for him and they'd remain a unit because John needed Sherlock – needed these moments – just as much as Sherlock needed him.


	29. Chapter 29

He didn't remember falling asleep and he couldn't work out what it was that had woken him, but Sherlock's eyes snapped open in the thick darkness and he felt a slight seizing of his body as though he'd been startled. It took a moment for him to gather his bearings, but he soon registered where he was. His arms were aching, wanting to cramp and beginning to tingle from being held up above his head for so long and as he lowered them down he hissed, despite himself. He bore the weight of his upper body against his arms; hands braced against the sofa, he himself into a sitting position with a huff. He grunted at the effort it took to maintain his balance and reach down with one arm to pull his legs around so that he could sit properly against the back of the sofa.

His eyes adjusted slowly but he could soon make out the shape of the furniture scattered around him with the small amount of light that came through the high window; the curve of the L-shaped sofa, the coffee table and the television. Behind him, he could hear John's gentle snores and it comforted him somewhat to know he wasn't completely on his own. He sighed into the cool air that circulated the basement and rest his head back onto the top backrest of the sofa. He pulled the woollen throw-over closer, comforted by its softness in an infantile way and sighed, blinking his eyes to clarity.

Then his face contorted as a sudden, sharp spasm twisted tightly somewhere in his mid-back. He hissed a breath in through gritted teeth as the forty-seconds of pain and tightness seemed to last a millennia. "Ugh…" he huffed, his teeth pushing tightly together, and couldn't help himself when the groaning turned into a deep, throaty cry of pain as the spasm seemed to intensify before dispersing. "Argh! Uh…" he inhaled and exhaled sharply through his nose as his body took a moment or two to relax from the sudden tensing. He felt lightheaded from the hyperventilation and he gripped the couch with both hands for stability.

But it seemed the noise, small though it was, was enough to rouse John and see him immediately worry. "Sherlock?" he called out, voice gruff from sleep, and the room burst into a dim light as John switched on the lamp at his bedside.

Sherlock, his head hanging back over the sofa, turned to look at John as he huffed out a final breath, finally relaxed again. "Sorry," he said with a soft frown, "Spasm."

John was out of bed in a flash and moved across to the sofa, his hand on Sherlock's head as he bent over the back of the couch. "Gone?" he asked, fingers caressing Sherlock's slightly clammy cheek.

Sherlock nodded, looking sleepily up at John. "Sorry I woke you."

"No, it's alright" John shook his head and crouched further down to place a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. This Sherlock liked, noncommittal touching. He smiled gently. John snaked his hands down Sherlock's front, turning the gentle forehead kiss into a lip-to-lip kiss, still soft and unrushed, whilst his fingers roamed down Sherlock's chest to his tummy.

"OK…" Sherlock's hands clasped around John's wrists; "Please, not now," He asked, looking up at John, upside down, above him.

Nodding, John gave Sherlock another soft kiss as he pulled his hands back. "Alright," he spoke softly. "Your belly's a bit distended." He commented as he straightened, "Your bladder," he elaborated. Sherlock frowned at the sudden intrusion of word and felt a humiliated flush rush his cheeks, though he didn't know if John could see it. "You maybe didn't void your bladder properly earlier," he suggested on a yawn as he walked around to push Sherlock's chair closer to the sofa. "Can you remember how much?"

Sherlock blinked uncomfortably and John sensed it. "John, don't…"

"As your Doctor, not your partner," John looked down on him carefully before sitting on the edge of the coffee table. "Please – the last thing I want is you retaining urine and ending up with a UTI."

Sherlock licked his lips and shrugged, "Just over four hundred mil." He said, "I can't remember exactly."

"Want to try again?" John said gently, "It's gone half three in the morning, you've been out of it since early evening." He rose to his feet, bringing Sherlock's cold cup of tea with him, and wandered toward the stairs to head up the kitchen. "I'll put the kettle on, seen as we're both awake, and let you get sorted, yeah?"

He didn't wait for Sherlock's reply, simply slipped away to leave the Detective to his own devices. He'd found out early on that this was the best for them all. When he returned to the basement, mugs of tea in hand, Sherlock was just leaving the bathroom, reaching for the cord to turn off the light as he passed through, back into the main room.  
"All sorted?" John asked to which Sherlock nodded and offered up information before John even asked for it.

"Five hundred and twenty mil," He looked wide awake now, the long sleep he'd had all evening having eradicated his fatigue, and John knew that he wouldn't be going back to sleep tonight so resolved that he, too, would sit up.

"Good," John nodded and waited for Sherlock to move from his chair to the sofa and get comfortable before he handed him his mug. His hands wrapped around his own hot drink, John flopped unceremoniously into the sofa beside him and yawned for effect. "Knackered." He fluffed his words.

"You can go back to bed, you know." Sherlock stated bluntly, "You don't have to sit up and mind me, I'm not a child." He looked both contrite and adorable in the same breath and John could only smile at him.

"No, you're not; I've yet to meet a six-foot child." He sipped his tea, "Anyway, maybe I want to sit up with you – maybe I like you when you're awake in the middle of the night and a little more pliant and suggestible."

"I'm never suggestible." Sherlock replied and if he truly was insulted, it didn't show. "Can I remind you whose hands were wandering round whose body not ten minutes ago?" he quirked a smile in John's direction. "Really though," he sobered, "I didn't mean to wake you so you can just go back to bed."

"No, I meant what I said, I like sitting up with you." John reached across and touched Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock was gradually getting more used to this – the way John liked to touch and hold him, especially since the shooting – and he was beginning to find it was OK. There were times when he could do without the fussing and petting, but it made John happy and Sherlock so often felt, recently, that he needed to do all he could to make John happy.

A comfortable quiet fell between the two of them as they drank their tea and lasted without awkwardness. It was John who permeated it, a few minutes on, as he leaned forwards to place his empty cup on the coffee table. "You seem more relaxed than earlier." He commented. "When we got back from the station, you seemed a bit – I don't know, scattered."

"I felt it." Sherlock admitted. "I can't make sense of my thoughts – every time I think I have something, think I have an idea and know what happened, my back spasms or I try to do something and realise I can't and then my mind scrambles as though somebody's attempting ECT."

John always sat quiet on moments like this; the moments when Sherlock was candid, open and honest about how he was feeling. They rarely happened, but when they did they were profound and enlightening to John and he never wanted to inject into them with himself in case Sherlock would recoil and stop talking again.

"I can't focus on it, the case." Sherlock continued. "All I can think about is the chair, about the things that have stopped, about the things that have to be a certain way from now on. There is a very real chance, a very real chance that my brother was involved in some kind of Government cover up and was planning on someway having Lestrade out of the equation. By proxy, he did this – if what I think is true, if I can work it out and get my brain to just do what it used to, there could be a proof in there that says my brother is responsible for this." He placed his left hand onto his thigh and looked up at John.

"Maybe that's why you're finding it harder to figure this out, because it's personal? Because maybe you don't want to believe it or find out if your theories are true?" John suggested. He shifted in the sofa, turned a little to face Sherlock, and took a deep breath. "If I ask you something, suggest something, will you listen and hear me out before jumping in and taking my neck off?"

Sherlock knew instantly something was coming that he wasn't going to like but he trusted John in a manner he'd never trusted in anyone else, so he nodded. "OK." He muttered quietly.

"Give up the case." John said, bluntly. "Be there for the questioning on Tuesday, help Greg and the team by all means, but don't pursue it yourself. Your body and mind can't cope – you can see that yourself with how you felt today. Let Greg take the wheel and step back at least a bit. Please?"

"But this is Mycroft," Sherlock said bluntly, "This is my brother – he…this is my case, it's for and because of me."

"Precisely," John brushed his hand through his hair, "Too close for comfort, too close to home. You are in no state of mind nor are you physically strong enough to chase this one down on your own. I'm not saying abandon it or turn away or stop trying and fighting for its conclusion and some closure – for the truth – but leave the leg work and the guts to Scotland Yard and please, stay with me – work on your physio, start counselling."

"I can't." Sherlock shook his head, his voice even in a way that told John he at least accepted his opinion.

"No, you can, you just won't." John sighed, "I don't want to ever stop you working or being everything you ever were, but what I want to see is you become strong enough to be that way. Physio for a few months, talking to someone – me or somebody professional – and then start taking cases; I know this is different and it's bloody difficult, but it's essentially the same and I just want you to know that I want you to step back, not for forever just for a while. If you won't, that's OK, that's down to you, but I just want to see you gather strength. At least think about it?"

"I'll think about it." Sherlock nodded, a resigned fatigue etched on his face. "I'll think about it." he repeated and reached out to John, touching the Doctor's cheek in the same manner that he liked to touch Sherlock. John smiled tiredly and leaned into the touch, turning his face a little to lay a kiss on the palm of Sherlock's hand.


End file.
